The Mutual Suicide Pact, Part 2
by elbafo
Summary: Red carpet events and organised crime figures: both pose a challenge for Sherlock, but only one features a man called Sebastian Moran. Sherlock and Violet's story continues in Part 2 of The Mutual Suicide Pact. Slightly AU.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Violet furrowed her brow. There was something uncomfortably familiar with the cadence of his _speech_ , not just the words he spoke.

Jake continued talking, pacing this way and that. "What it is, right, he's not on any _file_ for those organisations, just a lowly twat in the Ministry of Defence. But you're under his protection." Jake stabbed an accusatory finger in Violet's direction. He stalked back toward her, saying, "Why? Why is Violet Hunter so fucking special?" He stopped directly in front of her, narrowing his eyes. "Are you a grass now? Is that what this is? Are you gonna grass us up?"

Violet gaped a little. She was almost about to either deny the accusation, or query Jake on how he knew so much about Mycroft Holmes, when it dawned on her why Jake was behaving like this—where his Northern accent always became just that little bit more… _Mancunian_ , why his eyes ran wild, and a restlessness dominated his movements.

Violet lifted a hand to Jake's chest and prodded him, asking, "Are you fucking high?" Jake straightened up, standing even taller over Violet. "That's why you disappeared, isn't it? You raced off to the bathroom for a bit of blow."

"Fuck off," he replied, taking a step back. A low menace resounded in his tone. "You know how this works. Stop being a fucking tart about it."

"No," Violet said, a tightness spreading in her chest. This was a horrible déjà vu. She had already lived this life, for fuck's sake. Jake had no business bringing his crappy existence back into hers. She made to clench her fists, but her nails prevented her from curling them all the way, reminding her of some other life she lived now. Her jaw tightened, and she snapped, "We're not doing this."

Violet made a move for the door, but Jake reached out and gripped her arm as she tried to brush past him.

"We're fucking doing this now." He turned her to face him, but immediately released his grip on her. "Because I've got a message for you to give your interfering boyfriend, from my business associates."

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

This story is slightly AU, in that it doesn't conform to canon events. I do use canon characters, with minor characters, antagonists (and villains) popping up in different scenarios.


	2. A Person of Significance

**Chapter 1 – A Person of Significance**

"So you've seen this before?" Sherlock asked of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Definitely a hit, yeah," the DI replied.

They were standing outside an abandoned storage facility, where a body of a man lay, surrounded by Scotland Yard's forensics team.

"When?" Sherlock asked. A corpse in a condition such as this would definitely have been stored in Sherlock's Mind Palace. Why couldn't he recall the details?

"It wasn't our jurisdiction," Lestrade informed the Consulting Detective. "But it did hit the papers. You... might not remember."

Sherlock listened as the CID senior detective outlined the salient facts of the previous case, which remained unsolved to this day. Lestrade's expression was almost apologetic, and Sherlock knew why. The detective-genius _had_ been approached to look at that case for the Greater Manchester Police five years ago, with Scotland Yard's DS Lestrade acting as a sort of liaison, since he knew the eccentric Consulting Detective better than anyone else did. But Sherlock Holmes had been unavailable to take the case at the time. Sherlock Holmes had lain, largely immobile, on a couch in a flat in Montague Street, under the influence of a cocktail of narcotics.

Lestrade pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sherlock.

 _Organised crime_ , thought Sherlock grimly. He placed the cigarette between his lips as Greg Lestrade held up his lighter. _Organised crime and Manchester—somehow related to this hit in London._

Sherlock had thought going out on a case this evening would give him a welcome break from Violet and her over-amorous attention. Now he wasn't so sure. The actress had lured Sherlock into his bedroom after John Watson had left, and before he knew it, they were having sex for the fourth time since their reunion.

He knew this was Violet's way of cementing their status as a couple again—she was feeling as insecure as he was, he could tell—and there had been many an occasion last year when they had indulged in pleasuring each other's bodies over the course of a day. He wasn't quite mentally prepared for it, that's all.

When Lestrade's call had come through in the early evening, Violet had practically ordered Sherlock to go.

"And you can tell me all about it when you get back," she had requested him, curling her naked form around his. "I love hearing about your cases."

Sherlock's heart had swelled with pride. An audience for his brilliance. Of course he could oblige.

Pre-Violet he would've relished in being given such a case. Five years ago, the Greater Manchester Police had wanted to pin the murder on a notorious gangster called Sebastian Moran, Lestrade had informed him, but they had no evidence against him, just whispers and rumours, and witnesses who would mysteriously change their story. Sherlock had never heard of him. Whenever he thought of organised crime in Manchester, all he could think of was Jake Venucci and Violet Hunter and that photo of them having sex.

Sherlock didn't want to take on this case at all.

-o-

Violet stirred out of her groggy sleep, having been kissed by a handsome prince. _Sherlock Holmes._

"Mmm, what time is it?" she murmured.

"It's just after two," Sherlock replied, speaking in the low register that he knew would have a soporific effect on his girlfriend. "Go back to sleep. I have some work to do. I just wanted to let you know I'm home."

Violet closed her eyes, content that he was here again. She almost fell back asleep, but the small spark in her brain that had registered that Sherlock was home, turned into a flame, and she was wide awake again.

And there was something off about that kiss.

 _Oh_ , she thought in reflection. _Cigarette smoke. So much for having his last one this morning. Or yesterday morning, or whenever it was._

Violet lay in Sherlock's huge, comfortable bed for a while—which smelled deliciously like the detective—turning that little snippet of evidence over in her mind. She stretched, yawned, then stumbled out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown to draw on over her pyjamas.

She had spent the evening in Sherlock's absence looking for a book to read on her iPad. She wasn't satisfied with any she had stored in her Kindle app, but she hadn't read anything for pleasure in a while. Her original intention was to learn her lines from her script that she assumed she'd already stowed in her sports bag, the one she normally took to the studio, the gym, the boxing club, and Mandi's—whenever she stayed overnight on the odd occasion the two planned to socialise into the wee hours. Since Violet couldn't find her script on the chair in her bedroom, she thought it was already in her bag, and she hadn't double-checked before she'd left for Baker Street.

 _Must've fallen to the floor,_ she'd concluded, after upending the bag's contents all over Sherlock's bed while he was out working. She then spent the next two or three hours flitting from ebook to ebook, dissatisfied.

Violet had caught herself smiling stupidly to herself from time to time, whenever she reflected on the fact that she was here, in Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes was her boyfriend again.

Violet had searched through all of his kitchen cabinets, and found only a box of Cornflakes that she could munch on for dinner. There wasn't any milk in the fridge. Violet hadn't wanted to eat out in case she was spotted and followed back to 221, and ordering in wasn't an option because she hadn't been quite ready to announce her presence to the landlady just yet. Everything still felt a tiny bit surreal to her, and not actually having Sherlock's company during the evening seemed to cement the dream-like state in which she had found herself.

But he was here now, and Violet was mostly awake. She didn't want to waste another second not in his presence. And besides, he had a case. This was her chance to witness him being clever in close proximity. Would he mind?

Violet made her way through the kitchen to the living room, where she found Sherlock sitting on the couch with a whole bunch of papers fanned out before him on the coffee table, along with an ashtray full of cigarette butts. Smoked coiled through the air from the freshly lit cigarette pinched between Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock detected her presence without looking up, and said, cigarette still firmly wedged in his mouth, "I'm sorry I woke you."

Violet furrowed her brow at the sight, then turned back to the kitchen so she could put the kettle on.

"I'll just make you tea. I won't interrupt," she said quietly. Violet busied herself getting the tea things down from the shelf.

Should she address the smoking thing? Was it any of her business?

Sherlock removed his cigarette, and placed it on the edge of the ashtray. "No, it's all right," he called in the direction of the kitchen. "You can come over here. It'll help me think if I explain it to you out loud." _And you'll get to hear my brilliance first hand,_ he thought.

Violet left the kitchen after flicking the switch on the kettle. Crossing the rug, she stifled a yawn. She made herself comfortable next to Sherlock, and when she leant into him, he kissed the top of her head.

"I didn't even know you had an ashtray," Violet remarked. Her last memory of Sherlock smoking in his living room was the night she'd found him drunk on whiskey and playing a very loud orchestral piece on his stereo. He may have been flicking ash all over the coffee table that night. She couldn't recall. She had been rather stressed herself.

"It's from Buckingham Palace," he replied.

"Why are you smoking again?" Violet asked, forgetting she was going to overlook this vice.

"It's a stimulant. Helps me to think," he stated simply, picking up the cigarette from the ashtray again, and taking a drag while his eyes scanned a particularly wordy document.

 _What's wrong with nicotine patches?_ Violet thought, but she refrained from asking. It seemed like a naggy thing to say, and they were going to be the perfect couple now, weren't they?

"What's all this then?" she asked, trying to maintain a level of interest, despite remaining drowsy.

Sherlock shifted some of the papers around, then stopped on a photograph he'd been given by the forensics team. Violet immediately turned her face away.

"Oh for fuck's sake," she exclaimed.

Sherlock quickly apologised and turned the photo over.

"Ronald Adair—shot in the back of the head," he explained.

"I could see that."

"He'd been executed," Sherlock continued, ignoring Violet's remark. "Gang warfare or an organised crime hit. Nothing too out of the ordinary... apart from this," Sherlock added. He paused for effect while he drew out another photograph to place on top of the first.

"You know I'm still not looking," Violet said.

Sherlock tutted, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then exhaled deeply.

"He'd been castrated, and... You can remove your hand," he instructed Violet when he noticed that the actress was shielding her eyes. "I've turned the photo over. Now what makes it all the more bizarre is where they found his penis."

"In his mouth?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow and carefully scrutinised his girlfriend. She'd replied a little too quickly for his liking.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Because it sounds like a hit that happened in Manchester years ago. Jake told me about it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and straightened up.

"What?" asked Violet.

"The information about the whereabouts of the victim's penis in that Manchester case was never made public."

"Well... I don't know," Violet said, shrugging. "Jake just knows stuff."

Sherlock continued to study Violet's eyes, as if he were taking all the evidence he needed from within.

"Sherlock, stop it. I don't know anything. Jake wouldn't be... involved." Violet swallowed hard. She immediately felt guilty, and didn't know why. "This one here... in London," she stammered, pointing to the back of the photo of Ronald Adair. "Well, Jake never comes to London without contacting me, and he hasn't recently, so..."

"You don't need to provide an alibi for Jacob Venucci," Sherlock stated blandly. He kept his expression neutral, and he turned back to the papers on the table while Violet picked at her fingernails beside him. Sherlock tried not to dwell on the fact that whenever Jake comes to London, apparently he contacts Violet.

 _Coffee, update, 4pm._

Sherlock shook those thoughts loose. He didn't want to revisit last year's paranoia.

 _Back to the case at hand._ Sherlock placed a document in front of Violet. Attached to the report via a paperclip was a photograph of a bespectacled, beady-eyed, balding man, slightly over-weight, in his mid-thirties.

Violet's initial impression of the man was that he looked like somebody's accountant.

"Greater Manchester Police suspected that this man was somehow connected." Sherlock tapped the photo, and said, "Sebastian Moran." He paused for a moment, to give Violet time to react to either the man's photo, or his name. When she said nothing, Sherlock continued. "He's known as the enforcer, a thug, and regarded as very dangerous and very violent. He's spent in total eleven years behind bars for various offenses. But I'd say he's basically a moron, having been caught so many times. Recently, though, the police suspect he's behind a handful of crimes around Manchester, but he's never been pinned due to witness intimidation and jury tampering. Personally I don't think he's clever enough to organise that side of things. I suspect a more intelligent figure is pulling the strings."

Violet squinted her eyes at the photo. He didn't look familiar, but... the name... _Moran_. It registered somewhere in the dim recesses of her mind.

"I'm sure I know the name," she said slowly, "but not the face."

Sherlock clenched his jaw a little. He knew he didn't want to take this case. He cleared his throat and said, "Well, if you were... in a relationship with Venucci for over a year, there's a good chance you would've at least heard the name _Sebastian Moran._ "

Small creases appeared in Violet's brow as she struggled to come up with something, anything, that would jog her memory. No such thoughts were forthcoming, only a slight prickling of her skin.

"Violet," Sherlock prompted.

"Don't ask me anything," she said quietly. Violet stood up, and strode away out of the living room. As she did so, she called back, "I'll make your tea now."

Sherlock bowed his head, and raked his fingers through his hair, before he too rose from the couch.

"Violet."

Violet remained silent, so Sherlock made his way over to the kitchen to find his girlfriend angrily dumping teaspoons of sugar into a mug.

 _She really should work on her acting skills,_ he thought. _If she wants to hide something from me, she's doing a pretty poor job of it._

"If you know something—"

"Of course I don't know anything," she retorted, rounding on Sherlock. "Jake never told me about his businesses, or his... work... or anything of importance. But if you're investigating Jake then I don't want to know."

Sherlock's stomach involuntarily lurched at her remark. Why was she displaying a sense of loyalty to that man?

"I'm not investigating him specifically," he said, attempting to keep his voice light and even. "The case is about a murder here in London. Manchester were looking at Moran, and Scotland Yard are looking to Manchester for past evidence. I'm looking at the deceased. I'd rather make my own connections."

Sherlock could tell that Violet was struggling to keep from crying. Her eyes were full to the brim. She turned her back to him, and began to spoon sugar into the mug again.

"Violet."

Violet stopped what she was doing, and regarded the cup in front of her.

"Did you want some tea with your sugar?" she asked, a strained laugh emanating from her throat. "I can start again."

Sherlock reached for her, and turned her around to face him.

"Why are you so upset?" he asked, his eyes boring into hers.

Violet maintained his gaze, and Sherlock thought he saw something there. Something unpleasant. He had often wondered how Violet, _his Violet_ —sweet, playful, cuddly although sometimes fierce, and also partly scatter-brained and uncoordinated, chatty and friendly, the list was endless—how had _this Violet_ been in a relationship for over a year with someone like Jacob Venucci. But the fleeting look he had just witnessed both terrified and excited him.

"Because I don't want to make some trivial comment about my life with Jake," she replied a little shakily, "causing you to get that look in your eye as if that was the one thing you were waiting to hear. I don't want to be the one to put Jake behind bars. Don't make me say anything to you."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his heart stuttering slightly. "Does he still mean something to you?"

Violet's expression actually softened, and Sherlock hated to think she was conjuring up a happy memory of her and Jake's time together. The photograph, courtesy of Mycroft's file, of Violet kissing Jake—the briefest of kisses—when she was dating Sherlock the first time around, came to the forefront of his mind.

"Of course he does," she replied. "He's my ex-boyfriend. How can he not?"

"I don't know, Violet," Sherlock replied flippantly. "I don't have an ex anything to draw upon for comparison."

"You had me, remember. I was your ex-girlfriend for a time."

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath, then exhaled deeply before saying, "Please don't compare me to Jacob Venucci. I had every intention of reconciling with you."

"Of course, it's not exactly the same with Jake," Violet said, relaxing her shoulders so that the tension left her body. "I care about him, and I know he still cares about me."

"Even though you rejected him."

"Well..." Violet began, raising her hand to rest lightly on Sherlock's chest.

"You rejected his marriage proposal."

Violet narrowed her eyes at Sherlock's remark. "How could you tell he proposed to me from one surveillance photo?" she asked.

 _We're not keeping anything from each other,_ Sherlock recited in his Mind Palace. _Our little reconciliation has come with a new set of conditions_. Surely Violet couldn't be angry about something she had already been upset about in the past. This was just a little more information that she may have not been privy to at the time she had discovered Mycroft's file. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and confessed, "They had captured video and audio of your meeting with Jake in Ealing.

Violet dropped her gaze, and flattened her palm against Sherlock's chest. She exhaled and murmured, "Of course they did."

"When I saw the clip, I realised I'd made the worst mistake of my life..." Sherlock couldn't continue, but his eye contact with Violet did not waver.

Violet remained silent for a moment while she tried to recall the very awkward conversation she'd had with Jake. When she remembered telling Jake that she loved Sherlock, she looked into the detective's eyes and wondered if it was witnessing that exchange that had caused him to realise his mistake. When a warm smile spread across Sherlock's face, she knew he did.

"We all make mistakes," she said softly, maintaining his gaze. "Look, I know what Jake does for a living, or at least vaguely. Obviously he has legitimate businesses as well. And it wouldn't really surprise me if he ended up in jail someday. I just don't want to be the one to put him there. Can you understand that?"

Sherlock gave a tiny nod in response.

"I understand," he said reluctantly. "And for the record, I'm starting with Ronald Adair, the murder victim. I don't want to automatically assume Moran is responsible, or that your... _ex-boyfriend_ is connected in some way, just because you were privy to some street gossip. You know I like to work things out for myself."

"I know."

Sherlock brought his hands up to cup Violet's face and pressed a kiss to her lips.

When he drew back, he said, "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Will you come to bed now?" Violet asked, doe-eyed with hope, and Sherlock's cup of tea long forgotten.

Sherlock acquiesced, considering the late hour and that he was now in the mood for cuddling. Violet preceded him into the bedroom while he switched off all of the floor lamps around the living room, finishing with the kitchen light.

Sherlock silently slipped out of his clothing and slid in between the sheets. Violet reached for him, and he drew her nearer.

"Just so you know," she said, her whispers floating through the darkened room, "I never loved Jake as much as I love you. There's no comparison."

The small tug on Sherlock's heart told the detective that these were words he wanted to hear. He hadn't realised that the last few minutes' conversation in the kitchen—learning that Violet still felt something for her ex-boyfriend— had meant that a heavy weight had descended on his heart. Now it felt buoyant and burden-free again. She loved him more than she had ever loved Jake. That's all he needed to know.

-oOo-


	3. Secretly Pleased to See You

**Chapter 2 –** **Secretly Pleased to See You**

Sherlock had woken early and had dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown so he could stoke the fire in the living room. He intended to have a cup of tea, then check his emails in solitude, before returning to the bedroom to have an early morning snuggle. He would let the actress sleep in a little bit first. It _was_ Sunday wasn't it?

The detective had just taken his first sip, and was navigating his phone with his free hand when he heard a familiar tread on the stairs.

 _Surely not,_ he thought with furrowed brow, placing his tea down onto the side table and checking his watch. It was barely nine o'clock.

When his older sibling materialised through the door into the living room, Sherlock rose from his chair.

"It's a bit early for civil servants, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, as his brother cast a weary eye over the detective's attire. " _And_ it's Sunday. You can't need me to accompany you to Lord Gorot's charity polo _thing,_ surely."

Mycroft Holmes continued looking down upon his younger brother.

"You're still in pyjamas, yet you are clearly working," Mycroft mused through beady eyes.

"You've seen me in my pyjamas before."

"Yes, but usually it's due to a lack of cases, and under those circumstances, I would normally find you _lolling about_ on your sofa," Mycroft replied, gesturing toward said sofa with the tip of his umbrella.

Sherlock narrowed his own eyes at his brother and took a step forward. "Right, if we're going to play deductions," he said, "it's my turn: your hair is slightly damp." He inhaled deeply and wrinkled his nose. "Chlorine. So you've taken up swimming again."

Mycroft's closed-mouth smile didn't extend to his eyes. He moved back toward the door, and swung it until it was halfway closed. Taking his own sniff of Sherlock's new coat that hung on the back of it, he declared, "Cigarette smoke. So you've taken your new coat out for a test drive. And as you're still in your sleepwear..."

Mycroft strode back around to the kitchen area as Sherlock followed him with his eyes. It was always amusing to watch the pompous arse work up a sweat. His brother glanced toward the passageway leading off the kitchen and said, "And your bedroom door is shut."

"This is all quite good," Sherlock said, his eyes glistening in amusement as he moved back toward his chair and took a seat. "Do continue." He crossed his legs and laced his fingers together.

The older Holmes raised his chin, and gazed thoughtfully about the room, before looking down upon his younger brother once more.

"There are traces of a not quite top-shelf female perfume, much too young to belong to your landlady. _Cleo de Thebes_ , if I'm not mistaken. Re-establishing old habits, with a slight twist? You really have moved on. Saturday nights instead of Thursday, and you're bringing your conquests here, to Baker Street. How very _vulgar_."

Just at the moment, the door to Sherlock's bedroom flew inwards as the detective's latest 'conquest' stormed out, saying, "Why the fuck did you let me sleep in? I'm going to be la—" She stopped mid-sentence when she spied the older Holmes brother standing beside Sherlock's armchair with his back to her. "Oh crap." Violet's eyes widened, and with her free hand, she held her dressing gown together just that little bit tighter as Mycroft Holmes turned around. "Sorry," she said urgently to Sherlock as they locked eyes. "Didn't know you had a client. Don't mind me!"

Violet escaped through the kitchen door to the landing carrying her overnight bag.

"She's very forward, isn't she?" Mycroft remarked to Sherlock as Violet's hurried footsteps died away. "Are you really going to let your lady-friend leave only half-dressed?"

"She was heading upstairs, Mycroft, not downstairs. And what do you mean, 'lady-friend?'"

When Mycroft tilted his head in non-comprehension, a tiny smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth as realisation dawned. He said to his older brother, "You didn't recognise her."

Mycroft's brow furrowed in confusion. "Should I have?"

Sherlock's smile broadened, and his eyes glinted mischievously. He was starting to enjoy himself. Sherlock uncrossed his legs and abruptly stood up again, saying, "That was Violet."

The dignitary of the British Government gaped a little as he turned in the direction that Violet had left.

"You and Ms Hunter are..."

"Back together again, yes," Sherlock finished. "So that would explain my cheery disposition. I'm sure you were about to point that out on your next round of deductions."

"Oh, of course," Mycroft replied, stifling an eyeroll. "The dyed hair. All for that ridiculous television show that our mother now watches religiously. Well," he added, attempting a smile, "Mummy will be pleased."

"Something to chat about during your next fortnightly phone-call, no doubt. Try not interfere this time, Mycroft." Sherlock brushed past his brother and made to exit through the kitchen door as well. Turning back, he said, "And it looks like Violet's in a mood, so I'll skip the introductions for now, if you don't mind. You're likely to lose a testicle otherwise." Sherlock made a show of looking thoughtful. "Do you even have any?"

Ignoring his brother's jibe, Mycroft remained composed. He raised a regal eyebrow to ask, "She has moods?"

"Of course she does. She isn't an umbrella." Sherlock stepped through the door, then, upon remembering that his brother was there, and uncharacteristically early for a Sunday morning, he ducked his head back around the open door and asked, "Why are you here?"

Mycroft Holmes prodded the floor with his umbrella to recompose himself as a Government official, and not a disapproving elder sibling.

"I hear you've been given the Sebastian Moran case."

"It's not the Sebastian Moran case," Sherlock countered, stepping back into the kitchen. "It's the Ronald Adair case."

"Ronald Adair, John Douglas," Mycroft remarked airily, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother's mention of the name of the murder victim from the unsolved Manchester case. "They both lead to Moran, or they will lead to Moran now that you're on the case."

"Well if you already know this then why haven't you solved it?"

"Not enough evidence, brother mine. And to obtain that, it may involve a bit of..." Mycroft grimaced at his next thought, "...leg work. And you know how much I abhor the climate up north. Not to mention the... _inhabitants_."

"So again, _brother mine_ , why are you here?" Sherlock repeated.

"To let you know that I've asked SOCA to cooperate with you. They have been conducting surveillance on Sebastian Moran and his associates for quite some time now..." Mycroft's mouth split into a lizard's smile. "Well, you already know about that."

 _Thank you for putting that image of Violet having sex with Jacob Venucci back into my head, you bastard_ , thought Sherlock.

"Well, I'll let you know if I need them," the detective said, feigning disinterest. "I'm conducting my own research."

"As you wish," Mycroft replied imperially, repositioning the tip of his umbrella on the rug.

Sherlock abruptly turned and exited onto the landing, calling back, "Let yourself out."

He swiftly ascended the stairs, and then stopped suddenly outside Violet's door, though it wasn't officially Violet's door; she had moved out after all. She always did prefer her bathroom to Sherlock's though. Something about it having natural light, which she found lacking in his, he recalled.

But why had he felt the need to rush upstairs? Violet was clearly in a mood and not to be messed with. He'd done something wrong, or forgotten to do something, and now he was in her bad books again.

Sherlock drew in a calming breath before entering the sitting room. The door to the ensuite bathroom was open, but he couldn't hear water running in the shower. Violet's dressing gown lay in a crumpled heap on the threshold. He approached the open door, and found Violet applying makeup in the mirror above the sink. She was completely naked. Small beads of water dotted her skin here and there, so clearly she had already showered.

"Where are you going?" he asked tentatively.

"I can't speak," she snapped, before applying an almost invisible shade of lip gloss.

Sherlock watched her for a moment or two, fully appreciating the view before him. Violet finished applying her lipstick then rummaged around in her makeup bag. Without looking up, she muttered, "You keep me up all fucking night, then don't wake me in the morning."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, having no idea what he was supposed to have done wrong.

"What?" he asked.

Violet strode past him into the sitting room, perfume and deodorant trailing along behind her, and began frantically pulling clothes out of her sports bag that sat on the coffee table.

"Coffee and a cab," she ordered him while swiftly pulling on a lacy g-string. "Can you manage that?"

"Coffee?" he repeated, still in a daze as layer upon layer of clothing began to conceal those soft curves and smooth skin—the curves that he should have been navigating right about now, with well-practised skill and dexterity.

"Yes, Sherlock. And a cab."

 _Matching bra, undershirt, t-shirt (one size too small) and now low-slung skinny jeans._

Sherlock stood, mesmerised. _Zipper_.

"Sherlock," Violet prompted him. "Cab, coffee. No, wait," she said, hastening over to the sofa. She sat down and grabbed at one of her boots. "Skip the coffee, just a cab. Why the fuck didn't you wake me?" she added, puffing lightly as she zipped up the first boot.

"I have no idea what's happening," Sherlock replied, suddenly finding his voice, and objecting just a little to being held responsible for this last minute panic. He could've _deduced_ what was happening, but there was something so hypnotic and arousing in watching Violet dress that most of his critical systems had gone to sleep anyway.

"The _thing_ ," she said, grabbing at the second boot. "For the fucking... look, I told you about it yesterday." Violet's brow was furrowed as she struggled to pull on her boot.

Sherlock's database was unable to retrieve a single file on yesterday's conversation about _the thing._

When he failed to make the right noises in response, such as an "Oh!" or "That's right, Violet!" his irate girlfriend added, "That's why I had to go shopping yesterday—for these... boots." She grunted a little as the zip finally moved to the top of the boot. Violet rose from the sofa then pulled a knitted top from her bag. "And this," she added, before pulling the garment over her head.

None of this seemed familiar to Sherlock. Obviously she had been speaking to him yesterday, and at the mention of 'shopping,' Sherlock had filtered, and quite brutally by the sound of it. He had retained none of her words.

"I'll get you a cab," Sherlock said as he moved toward the door, now under the assumption that he was at fault. "Where are you going?" he asked, for the purposes of informing the cabbie.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Violet cried, and she grabbed a smaller handbag from the sports bag, plus her coat, then she rushed past Sherlock, making for the stairs.

Sherlock wearily followed after her, and he only caught small snatches of information in amongst the "fucking crap" curse words that were sprinkled generously throughout her speech.

He discovered that Violet was attending a "meet the soap stars _thing_ " at the newly opened Westfield Shopping Centre, a small event to promote some soap star charity football match that was happening in a month's time. Sherlock had a vague memory of reading something about that online, during one of his many 'Violet Hunter' Google searches. He recalled that he had wondered how on earth Violet would manage running and kicking a soccer ball at the same time, when the actress could barely coordinate walking and texting simultaneously. He had felt quite anxious on her behalf.

Sherlock expected Violet to stop at the entrance to give him a farewell kiss and shower him with promises to see him later. He received none of that. Violet was out the door and onto the street without a backward glance. He wondered if she had expected him to follow her. Surely not. Did she not notice that he was still wearing pyjamas? A public farewell with a pyjama-clad boyfriend in broad daylight on a busy street must surely be on the list of things to avoid doing when you're hiding your relationship from the press.

Sherlock waited three seconds before he turned at the bottom of the stairs and went back up to his flat. Approximately twelve seconds later, his phone began to ring from the table beside his armchair. It sat companionably next to his cold cup of tea.

"I'm so sorry!" came Violet's voice. "I must've sounded like a bitch! I really didn't mean to. I was going to be so late, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry! I know I mentioned the thing at the shopping centre, but I didn't tell you how early I had to be there..."

Sherlock let Violet's words wash over him. All he could hear was that he was off the hook. It wasn't his fault. The rest of her words were unnecessary, he felt, but Violet proceeded to tell him all of the details about the promotion, the soccer match, and the charity for whom the fundraiser was being organised as she travelled by cab across London.

"...and I get so nervous and anxious before these things because I don't know how to act. I mean, I'm supposed to be me, not Christa Barlow, but I can't really be me, can I?"

She didn't stop; the entire seventeen and a half minute journey from Baker Street to the shopping centre was practically a Violet Hunter monologue, with Sherlock saying, "Mmm," at key points along the way, while he made himself a cup of tea, grabbed his laptop from the living room table and settled into his armchair, ready to conduct research on Ronald Adair.

He knew what she was doing; it was obvious. She had wanted Sherlock's companionship, just to know he was there, as she travelled to the promotion; she needed a hand to hold. Sherlock felt warmed by her need for his support. He had read about a couple of these unrelated-to-TV events in the magazines he _occasionally_ had purchased, where Violet and her co-stars had made a public appearance somewhere. Violet had always looked completely natural and at ease, he thought. So she was faking it. Good for her.

Violet rang off with a very sweet, "I love you," when her cab drew nearer to her destination, and a promise to return to Baker Street afterwards. But first, she advised Sherlock, she would stop by her flat to retrieve her script. Sherlock had felt a tiny bit guilty that Violet had 'misplaced' her script, but he thought she would easily find it where he had hastily stowed it underneath her bed.

Mrs Hudson cautiously peered through the doorway several minutes later to complain to Sherlock about one of his clients swearing and carrying on while stomping up and down the stairs above her rooms.

A warm smile spread across Sherlock's face before he replied, "That was no client, Mrs Hudson..."

-o-

The landlady was humming as she brought in the plates of nibbles and set them down on the small tables she had scattered around her living room. A Sunday afternoon gathering was in order in celebration of two of her favourite lodgers being reunited.

Sherlock had insisted she only invite John and Mary around, having eventually convinced the older woman that Violet had a hectic schedule these days and she didn't have time for a lot of fuss.

After Violet had finished her charity football match promotion, she had phoned Sherlock from Crouch End to ask if he wanted to _hang out_ with her there because she was going to have to tidy up her entire bedroom after not having found her script. She needed to finish learning her lines for Monday, and she was getting quite desperate. Naturally Sherlock found the idea of lolling about his girlfriend's tiny, frigid bedroom, while her flatmates raucously carried on downstairs, an unattractive prospect. So he suggested, ever so casually, that perhaps her script had dropped to the floor, and while they were in the throes of passion the other night, it may have been kicked somewhere else, like underneath the bed, for example.

"Well, how would it get so far away from the chair," Violet had said over the phone, emitting a grunt that told Sherlock she had dropped to the floor and was now peering under her bed. "My clothes are here, blocking it from sliding anywhere else... Oh! Now how did that get all the way over there?"

A self-satisfied grin appeared on Sherlock's face when he concluded that Violet had located her script. He said, "So I'll see you soon?"

Violet was silent for a moment, and Sherlock could tell that she was now clambering over the bed to the other side.

"Um... yes," she said distractedly. Sherlock could hear the sound of paper being rustled. "Sherlock Holmes," Violet said underneath her breath.

Sherlock froze, suddenly suspecting that he had been found out. He remained silent, and in hindsight, he realised that that was probably the action, or non-action, of a guilty person.

"I know you think I'm stupid," Violet began.

"No, not at all..." Sherlock responded automatically.

He could hear Violet exhaling deeply.

"When I snatched the script back from you the other night, I closed it up and put it on my chair. But now I find it all the way over to the wall, underneath my bed, on the side where you were sitting, and turned to the scene where Christa is having a conversation with her mother about not being able to cope with looking after her baby. Can you explain all that?"

"I have no idea why Christa isn't coping with looking after her own child."

"Sherlock."

"Are you coming over now? Because Mrs Hudson knows you and I are back together, and she's fussing about and _humming_. We're having a _thing,_ apparently, here in Baker Street, and you're the special guest. So you should come over quite soon, otherwise you're going to disappoint a well-meaning, kindly old landlady. There's nibbly things with toothpicks sticking out of them, like some poorly made molecular model, and—"

Violet had started laughing, her light, melodic laugh that played in harmony with Sherlock's heart-strings.

"I'll see you soon," she said, and Sherlock knew he was let off the hook once more. This was starting to become a regular occurrence. Sherlock wondered how long it would last.

Violet found herself the recipient of several hugs, and affectionate pats on the hand by the landlady. Mrs Hudson even drew Violet aside at one stage, to ask if Sherlock was all right about Violet kissing another man in a club just the other night—it was on the internet, Mrs Turner had said. At first, Violet was confused, until she realised that not everyone was as sharp as Mary Morstan. When Violet reassured the older woman that Sherlock was, in fact, the man she had been kissing, Mrs Hudson threw Sherlock a disapproving look.

"Sherlock Holmes. If you've been hanging about nightclubs again, trying to pick up women..."

John and Mary had laughed, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was up to Violet, again, to reassure the landlady that Sherlock was meeting her that night. It seemed far too complicated to explain the whole mutual stalking aspect, and her desire to escape the attention of the seedy studio executive, Stuart Jire, on the night in question.

The conversation moved on to the landlady relaying Mrs Turner's theories about all things relating to _Regency Road_ , while Sherlock scoffed and tutted, before offering his own theory that perhaps the young teenage Christa would find child-rearing all too difficult and she may just leave the baby with her mother. Violet thumped him for his information sharing.

Of course, Mrs Hudson was very upset when Violet informed her that she only had a three month contract with the show, so her character wasn't expected to stay living in Regency Road for much longer.

"But we will see you at the TELSAs, won't we?" Mary asked Violet, and by the half-smile that had formed on her face, Violet knew Mary was thinking about Sherlock Holmes in a tux.

Predictably, John Watson began to chuckle as well. Violet guessed that this was something the couple had been discussing just recently. Sherlock feigned disinterest, but it was obvious to him that he was somehow out of the loop.

"Will the great git accompany you," John asked before Violet could respond, "Or are you two going to remain a secret forever?"

"I don't know," Violet said, reaching for Sherlock's hand as they sat together on Mrs Hudson's settee. She glanced in his direction, then turned back to John. "I suppose by the time the awards come around my nightclub snog will be long forgotten. I hope. Maybe the TELSAs will be the perfect night to reveal that I've got a boyfriend."

Sherlock wanted to retreat into his Mind Palace. All this talk about their _relationship_ in front of a captive audience was threatening to suffocate him. He also need to quickly scan his database for anything relating to this unknown TELSA thing. It sounded vaguely familiar. He concluded that he must've read about it in one of his gossip magazines.

 _Yes!_ he thought gleefully, as he found a match swept under his carpet of irrelevant facts. _The TELSAs—The Television Soap Awards._ A pointless night of glamour and industry self-congratulation. And he was somehow supposed to accompany Violet to this... event?

"Just stay out of the way when they're interviewing Violet," John was saying to Sherlock, when the detective returned to the here and now. Apparently John had been giving Sherlock a rundown of the evening, loaded with advice for the detective-genius. Sherlock had missed most of it.

"I don't think they'll bother interviewing me," Violet said. Sherlock noticed that she looked as embarrassed and uncomfortable as he felt.

"At the very least, they always ask who you're wearing, don't they?" Mary replied.

"I guess," Violet replied, shrugging.

Now that was a cause for alarm, Sherlock thought.

"Wait," he said, creases appearing in his brow. "How is that even appropriate?"

All eyes fixed on the Consulting Detective. Just what did he know about red carpet celebrity interviews, they were all thinking.

"They always ask that question," Violet replied.

"But you won't know," Sherlock said. "You didn't even want to find out."

Violet was perplexed. She couldn't ever recall discussing designer gowns to wear at red carpet events with Sherlock.

"I'll know by then. In fact the studio—"

"And how do you propose to do that? DNA testing is only successful if there is a match already in the database, and you're talking a possibility of world-wide distribution of—"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"And, besides," he said, reaching out and letting a strand of Violet's hair run through his fingers, "These samples are unlikely to possess a hair follicle, so with the absence of a cell nucleus and therefore genetic material—"

At that point, Violet burst into laughter. Everyone else looked as perplexed as Sherlock about Violet's reaction. The actress managed to stifle her laughter eventually.

"Sherlock," she said, her eyes still a little moist, "we're talking about whose designer gown I'll be wearing, not who donated hair for my extensions!"

As laughter rang out all around him, Sherlock scowled. He was going to hate this entire world of entertainment in which he had found himself, he just knew it.

-oOo-


	4. I Need Data

**Chapter 3 –** **I Need Data**

Violet paused at hearing the question, her hand raised in mid-air, part-way through carding her fingers through Sherlock's hair. The detective lay with his head resting atop a cushion that was positioned on Violet's lap. They were spending Sunday evening relaxing on Sherlock's sofa, now that the celebratory afternoon tea downstairs was well and truly done with. The couple were absorbed in their own tasks—Violet reading her script, and Sherlock using Violet's iPad to read every news article he could find on Sebastian Moran, despite his earlier insistence that he was going to pursue the case from the perspective of the victim, Ronald Adair.

Sherlock looked up at his girlfriend, eyebrows raised. Surely it wasn't that difficult a question to answer. Why was she hesitating?

"Maybe in about six months time," she replied.

"Six months!"

He struggled to sit up; this was not an acceptable answer to the question, _When are you moving back to Baker Street?_

Violet thought he may get upset, but the situation didn't have to be as dire as he thought.

"We share the lease," Violet explained, "so I can't leave Spencer and Alice to pay my third of the rent, and I don't want to be paying rent in two places."

"What do you mean, _paying the rent in two places_? I'm paying for the room upstairs. I didn't want Mrs Hudson letting it out again."

"You shouldn't... I don't want you to pay my rent. As it is, I already owe you money for the wages you kept paying into my account after we broke up."

"What wages?"

"For being your personal assistant. You didn't cancel the automatic bank transfer."

"Why would I have done that?"

"Well, you should've done it, but you didn't. I no longer worked for you, remember? And I... may have spent a little when I didn't have any work on. But I kept most of it aside so I can pay you back."

Sherlock lay back down onto Violet's lap again, his mouth down-turned as he did so.

"I don't want it back," he said, resting the iPad on his chest. "Buy yourself something nice," he added, waving his hand in the air flippantly, "when you're out and about not spending time with me."

Violet chuckled lightly at Sherlock's sulky behaviour.

"I'm going to spend a lot of time here," she replied, and she playfully ruffled his hair. "Just try keeping me away. And don't forget, you can come over to mine any time you like."

"Uh, nope."

"Why not?"

Sherlock hesitated for a split second before answering. In that micro interval of time, he was able to determine that telling Violet the absolute truth—that he hated her messy, cramped, cold bedroom, and her flatmates even more so—would be a bit not good. So he said, "I'm a Consulting Detective. My clients may turn up at any time, day or night. I can't be spending copious amounts of idle time wading through the toxic dump that is your bedroom all because I want to avoid contact with those moronic friends of yours."

There was silence, punctuated by the ticking of the clock on the landing.

Sherlock quickly cleared his throat and said, "In hindsight, the beginning part of my reply regarding my clients was all you needed to know. Ignore the last bit."

-o-

Sherlock regarded the papers and files in front of him. He wasn't given the luxury of taking these home to Baker Street. He was spending Monday morning sitting in an office of the Serious Organised Crime Agency, SOCA, in Vauxhall, and Mycroft had advised him that since the Denial of Service attacks to their public website the previous year, which had probably masked a more malicious intent, the agency had become quite strict on who had external access to classified information.

Sherlock furrowed his brow; he was in need of a cigarette. He read under his breath, " _Moran came from an impoverished family... criminal career began when he was a doorman at various clubs around Manchester._.. irrelevant ... irrelevant... useless..."

Sherlock shuffled the papers around, then quickly scanned a few more, drumming his fingers on the desk as he did so.

His mind drifted back to Violet. Usually, during a lull in between cases, he'd review the past weekend, wondering where Violet had been, and why hadn't he been able to organise accidentally bumping into her. But that phase in his life was all behind him now. He'd just spent the weekend with her, albeit a very short weekend. What kind of relationship would they have now that Violet wasn't going to live with him? And what universe had he stumbled into where Violet Hunter had been required to work on a Sunday, and was up earlier than he had been on a Monday morning?

Violet hadn't been too happy with his comment about not wanting to spend time at her flat. In fact, she had replied, "I'm in two minds about spending a lot of time here now." And then she'd got all huffy, and decided she needed to say her lines out loud upstairs. She had disappeared for a couple of hours before Sherlock decided to seek her out, intending to entice her back downstairs with offers of dinner and snuggling.

He had stood on the landing outside her old room, listening to the one-sided dialogue. Sherlock had been both intrigued and impressed. Here was Violet bringing life to the flat words he'd read in the script. It sounded as if Christa Barlow, with her dark tresses and smudged eyeliner, was actually standing on the other side of the door, full of attitude and smarmy comments, but someone had muted the sound on her mother's responses.

Sherlock had knocked twice, then hesitantly opened the door when he concluded that Violet had finished her scene. The actress was in a much better mood to receive the detective's affections, and the rest of the evening had progressed as Sherlock had originally planned—dinner and snuggling.

However, this morning, he was quite disappointed to find Violet fully dressed, leaning over him to offer him a goodbye kiss.

"No," he'd said, his voice husky from sleep. "I have an erection. You can't go just yet."

Violet had laughed lightly at him, kissed his forehead and had _left._

Sherlock clenched his jaw at the memory, and immediately dismissed his concerns from his mind. Back to the task at hand.

"... _acquired businesses in London, Manchester and Newcastle,_ " he read once more. "... _gangland murder of a rival leader_..."

Sherlock began to narrow in on the surveillance documents and photos from Manchester. Moran was currently residing there, although he made frequent trips to London. He had escaped police custody for the last five years. He appeared to be clean now, but the man was an idiot. Who was pulling the strings and keeping the heat off Moran?

-o-

There were disadvantages to staying in Baker Street, Violet found, as she rummaged through her bag in search of hand cream that she was now sure she had left in her old bathroom upstairs. She knew she was hopelessly disorganised, so remembering to collect all the belongings that she'd managed to scatter about in a single visit to Sherlock's flat was one more morning task too much, and these days, she was required at the studio quite early.

She glanced around the dressing room that she shared with co-stars Chenoa Burton and Priyal Gorham, whose characters were long-term _Regency Road_ residents. Violet's Christa wasn't often featured in the same scenes with either of the young women, so Violet sometimes had the dressing room to herself.

As Violet stood in front of Chenoa's dressing table mirror, applying "borrowed" lotion to her hands, she scanned the photos and memorabilia adhered to the mirror and surrounding wall. She loved how her actress friend had personalised her corner of the room with candid photos of family and friends along with every soap magazine cover in which she had featured. Priyal's area was decorated in a similar vein. Both actresses had souvenirs from publicity trips around the UK and abroad, as well as items fans had sent them. Chenoa had been sent a Barbie doll that was clothed in the type of outfit that her character, Katie the waitress, wore.

Violet's own 'space' was tiny by comparison. She _was_ only a guest star, after all, and wasn't going to have a regular recurring role. Violet's own fanmail resided in a shoebox inside the small closet that housed her personal belongings. She didn't need much space, and she could always share a mirror with either Chenoa or Priyal; there was a day bed and a couple of comfortable armchairs to loll about in, when she needed to revise her lines or have a small daytime kip.

Violet finished moisturising her hands, then grabbed the sides for today's scenes, before heading to her co-star's dressing room to go over the lines that had been altered at the last minute. They had half an hour until they were required at Stage A for the camera rehearsal. This set contained the interior of Florrie Barlow's house, the home of Violet's on-screen mother.

Since arriving at the studio at six thirty, Violet had already eaten a light breakfast consisting of muesli, yoghurt and fruit from the canteen, attended a dry rehearsal on set for blocking and going over lines, and had her hair and make-up done (her favourite part of the morning), all before being required back on set at nine.

Meredith Bourkely, who plays the _Regency Road_ pub owner, Florrie Barlow, and Christa's mother, always became flustered whenever her lines were changed.

"I'm far too old for this," the fifty-something year old actress complained to Violet the other week. "My memory's not what it once was."

Violet found that there was a mutual benefit in running through their lines together. Florrie was constantly amazed that Violet could remember so much in so short a time, but she often spent their time together reminiscing about the 'good old days.' Violet loved hearing the stories—about which cast members had been rebels in their youth, which producers had been overzealous production assistants, and the names of casting directors to be nice to—so the majority of their time together in Meredith's dressing room was not spent on task.

Violet actually revelled in the challenge to shoot scenes with a cast member who was continually forgetting her lines. Meredith quite often commenced filming a scene with her sides grasped firmly in her hands until they were pried away at the last minute by a 2nd Assistant Director, or a hesitant but brave production assistant. Whoever was directing the particular scene would try to avoid cutting at Meredith's off-script delivery, unless the mistake was unworkable, which left Violet to improvise around the older woman until she could bring them back to script. On a couple of occasions, Violet was given a round of applause for successfully bringing the scene back to what was written. Since Violet couldn't bare to watch herself on the small screen, she didn't always know which take the studio ended up using, and if her creative efforts were good enough to keep. She'd never been advised _not_ to improvise, so until that happened, her and Meredith's on-screen banter would continue on in the same way.

Violet didn't find Meredith in her dressing room, so she concluded that she was socialising in the green room. Violet decided to leave the 'old bird'—as Meredith called herself— to it then. She planned to stop by admin to check if there was any mail in her pigeonhole. Before she left the dressing room area, she ducked back into her room to retrieve her security pass.

"Ah, glad I caught you," a male voice said softly from the doorway behind her.

A shiver ran down Violet's spine, but she maintained a cool exterior as she turned to face the studio executive that made her skin crawl—Stuart Jire. Why would he be here? she thought, hoping like hell he'd been looking for her fair-haired castmate, Chenoa.

Jire raised an eyebrow and quirked a lascivious smile, at least Violet thought so.

"You're a bit of a dark horse," Jire said to her, waggling a finger at her as he held up a magazine article.

Violet immediately wanted to be anywhere but here, in the confines of her dressing room alone with the likes of Stuart Jire. She drew her security card lanyard around her head, grabbed her water bottle and moved toward the door, saying, "Could we…" She glanced at the magazine page. The layout included photos of several actors, herself included, she noticed, with the headline, "Stagecraft vs. Screen Presence."

Jire seemed not to understand her gesture toward the door, or chose to ignore it.

He said, still in a mock accusatory tone, "You're actually a blonde."

Violet feigned a smile. "Yes," she said, her eyes dropping to the photo Jire was now tapping. It was a publicity still for _Kara's War_ , her theatre play from last year. "I'm not a peroxide blonde. Hair dye. Like this is," she said, gesturing to her own hair. "Do you mind? I'm…" she added, moving toward the door.

Jire merely turned in her direction but remained firmly in the middle of the room.

"You look just like young Daisy Firmington," he said, with a wink. Violet felt bile in the back of her throat. "Do you know her?" he asked, moving toward Violet. "That American actress… who… died."

Violet nodded weakly. There it was again—someone pointing out her resemblance to a dead American actress, one who had descended into a life of parties and designer drugs at the height of her career. Wonderful. First Spencer's brother Jesse had made the comment, and now the sleazy Stuart Jire. If Violet had her way, she'd never go blonde again. However her raven locks didn't stop her flatmate Alice remarking that Jesse would now have to call her Black Daisy.

"I have heard that before," Violet said, mustering a great deal of politeness. "I really don't see it. Do you mind if we…" Violet stepped out into the corridor. "Could you pull the door shut?"

"Oh, yes." Jire seemed to snap out of his little dreamworld and moved toward the doorway. "You know, just a bit of advice, between _mates_ …"

Violet's stomach churned a little. She stepped back and waited pointedly until Jire pulled the door shut when he joined Violet in the corridor.

"What's that?" Violet called back, as she then set a cracking pace along the corridor, past the other dressing rooms, most of which had closed doors.

"You really should go back to being blonde after you finish up here. It adds that old-style Hollywood look that is so sadly lacking amongst today's stars."

Violet could hear Jire wheezing behind her. Thank goodness for her almost daily fitness regime. Up ahead, she could hear the welcoming laughter of Meredith, presumably sharing wonderful stories with Annabeth Minogue, another Reggie stalwart.

"I'll keep that in mind," Violet called back, before turning into Annabeth's dressing room. "Morning!" she said brightly to both ladies, probably more enthusiastically than she normally would have.

Fortunately, the zest of her greeting was matched by Meredith who had a deep affection for the young actress. The older woman enveloped Violet in a hug, and stage whispered into her ear, "And what did you get up to over the weekend, you naughty thing?"

Violet drew back and smiled sheepishly as Annabeth held up her tablet, where Violet's nightclub snog with Sherlock was displayed. At that moment, Jire strode past the doorway.

"Morning ladies!" he called out, and thankfully, he continued along the corridor.

"Ooh, do tell. Who was he?" Annabeth asked eagerly, latching on to the chance to hear gossip firsthand, and completely ignoring the studio executive's greeting.

"Just an old friend," Violet replied.

At that moment, Meredith had quickly closed her dressing room door, a dark look growing on her face.

"Violet Hunter. Please don't tell me that man was just in your dressing room," her on-screen mother bid her urgently.

"Ah, just for a few seconds before I left to come here," Violet replied, as the two older women exchanged a look. "He wanted to show me a—"

"Sit down," Meredith said, and she gently pushed Violet in the direction of a small sofa.

"What, why?" Violet asked, a tiny sense of dread washing over her. She conformed to Meredith's request anyway, and sank down onto the plump cushions.

Again, Meredith glanced at Annabeth, and both women said simultaneously, "Lauren Myrtle."

"Sorry, who?"

Meredith took a seat next to Violet, and gently clasped the young actress's hand before she spoke.

"We've already told our Chenoa this, but that Mr Jire may just be turning his attention to you."

"Horrible, horrible man," Annabeth volunteered.

Violet felt that her gut instinct regarding Stuart Jire's sleazy intentions was just about to be confirmed by a colourful and gritty story about the "good old days." This morning's scene was practically forgotten as Violet straightened in her seat, poised to receive all of the sordid details.

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

Sorry about the introduction of so many new characters there. I'll repeatedly mention the important ones as we progress through the story.


	5. Her Version of Golf

**Chapter 4 –** **Her Version of Golf**

With a final grunt, Violet managed one last press of the barbell, then Priyal assisted her in placing the bar back down onto its stand.

"My God, Violet," Priyal remarked. "You're on form today."

"Crap, is that the time?" Violet said, glancing at the clock on the wall above the mirrors as she sat up.

"Warm down, yeah?"

Violet quite often completed a workout at the end of a shooting day in the studio gym, if the day hadn't already taken its toll on her. She only used the heavier weights when either Priyal, Chenoa, or Caleb—who plays the role of Shaun, one possible father to Christa's baby—were there to spot her. The power rack, with its pins that would help if she missed a lift, hardly gave her that all important personal touch. It was very handy that Priyal Gorham, with whom Violet shared a dressing room, had achieved her Level 2, Fitness Instructor qualification. Priyal had once been intent on becoming a Personal Trainer because her acting industry commitments had been non-existent.

As Violet slowly exhaled and stooped to the floor, she reflected on why she had been so focussed and determined in her workout. Her heart rate was already high, and she was sure adrenalin coursed through her veins.

Violet was adamant that something should be done about the sleazy studio exec, Stuart Jire, and his possible involvement in the death of Lauren Myrtle, as speculated by her fellow castmates, Meredith and Annabeth, this morning. And she knew just the man for the job.

-o-

Sebastian Moran was known to visit the club identified as _Kabuki Pirates_ in Manchester, Sherlock discovered. That information sat uneasily with him. His eyes had been drawn to the documentation outlining Moran's movements on one particular weekend because of the name of the club. Its London namesake had been the club in which Sherlock had recently reconciled with Violet.

Moran also owned nightclubs around Manchester, so why did he visit Jacob Venucci's club on many occasions?

Sherlock dropped his cigarette butt onto the pavement, stubbing it out when he commenced walking toward Lambeth Bridge along Albert Embankment. He had chain-smoked three before the sight of a passing female jogger triggered the memory of his girlfriend and subsequently his promise to her that he was giving up.

It was his intention to cross the bridge and hail a cab from Millbank, outside the home of MI5. Sherlock suspected that his brother was following his every move on the city's CCTV network, since the detective had left the heavily monitored Citadel Place, the location of SOCA, and had continued along Tinworth Street to the embankment. As Sherlock drew nearer to Mycroft's secret office within the confines of the Security Service, he imagined his older sibling growing uneasy as the minutes ticked past. Sherlock had no intention of calling in; he just enjoyed picturing his brother squirming in his leather armchair, the over-sized computer monitor conveying the image of his annoying little brother coming closer and closer.

It was Monday, and Sherlock knew that this was one of the days that Mycroft Holmes strode the corridors of MI5.

Sherlock hadn't felt the day was wasted, but surely they could've given him external access to both ViCLAS (the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System) and the National Injuries Database so he could peruse them at his leisure from the comfort of his armchair by the fire. Unfortunately, stringent security protocols dictated that it was not to be, and Sherlock was not looking forward to spending a working week within the confines of the Serious Organised Crime Agency in Vauxhall amidst the civil servants.

The second Sherlock settled into the back of the taxi, his phone began to ring. A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth because he knew immediately who the caller would be.

He was not mistaken: _Mycroft Holmes._

The Consulting Detective rejected the call, satisfied in the knowledge that he had disrupted his brother's day, and had possibly ruined the fat ponce's diet simultaneously.

Sherlock allowed himself one more cigarette as he walked along Baker Street by requesting the cabbie drop him off around the corner from his flat. _There. That was the last_. Naturally his thoughts drifted to his girlfriend, and he pondered what time she would grace him with her presence tonight, now that she resided elsewhere.

At the commencement of her explanation this morning, _I have to pick up..._ Sherlock had tuned out. He kicked himself for the way his mind automatically filtered whenever people would talk about the trivial things they had planned in their daily lives. This was _Violet_ , for goodness sake, and whatever she said and did was supposed to be lovingly filed away in his Mind Palace, not caught up in the webbing of his filtering mechanism and hastily discarded along with the sludge of other people's information sharing.

Whatever she had planned, he didn't expect to see her until much later in the evening, possibly after dinner. The fact that she was already in his living room, and _pacing_ when he arrived home was cause for alarm. Had he missed something?

Her brow was furrowed and she stopped halfway across the living room rug in order to fold her arms in front of her. Not a good sign. Sherlock cleared his throat, forced a smile to his face and ever so casually shrugged off his coat.

"Um..." was his opening line. Hardly the eloquence of the detective-genius he claimed to be.

"Where does Grice Johnson live?" Violet demanded.

Sherlock internally rejoiced. For two seconds. He hung up his coat behind the living room door, taking the time to consider his response.

Violet wasn't upset because Sherlock was supposed to meet her somewhere romantic for pre-dinner drinks, and had forgotten, or he was supposed to take line dancing lessons with her and was currently over-dressed for the occasion; she was angry because she was having a delayed reaction to the knowledge that she was almost sexually assaulted. What a relief!

"Ah... why?"

Violet stalked closer to Sherlock. He readjusted his cuffs. They needed adjusting apparently.

"Because he almost raped me! I want to see him. And don't you try to stop me!"

"Of course I'm going to stop you. That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard."

Violet pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn't much.

"Anyway, what brought this on?" Sherlock asked, keeping his tone light, as if Violet had just admitted to wanting to study accountancy instead of pursuing an acting career. "Didn't you have a _thing_ you had to do before coming over?" He turned, longing to make moves toward the kitchen and the kettle.

"I had to pick up my dry-cleaning."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes darted toward the sofa. There it was—Violet's dry-cleaning: a burgundy jacket and two dark skirts, all garments covered in thin plastic and slung over those terrible wire hangers. If only he had been more observant.

Violet had remained motionless, her arms still folded in front of her, but her eyes had narrowed in scrutiny.

"You know I am going to talk you out of going to see him," Sherlock stated evenly.

"That's not fair, and you know it. I reserve the right to confront him, and make him apologise."

This time Sherlock did turn from Violet. He raked his hand through his hair, then stopped and stared into the fireplace, one hand casually placed on his hip. He knew Violet needed this. She was incapable of deleting unpleasant memories, lacking his skill in Mind Palace organisation. This is probably what ordinary people had to go through: _closure._

"Okay, fine," he said, turning back to her. "But I won't give you his address. I'll just take you there."

Violet's face lit up, and she practically bounced over to Sherlock.

 _Good God,_ the Consulting Detective thought, as Violet gushed out a _thank you!_ and wormed her way into his embrace. _I'm dating a psychopath._

After Violet had left Sherlock's company shortly afterward, having explained that she had only intended stopping by briefly after picking up her dry-cleaning because she had to help Mandi with some perfume merchandise categorising that night— _Yes, I did tell you that, Sherlock, this morning... weren't you listening?—_ Sherlock sank despondently into his armchair. He had the distinct impression that he had been played.

Violet had asked for something she knew Sherlock wouldn't give freely—Grice Johnson's address—just so he would agree to a lesser favour—to accompany her to the bartender's residence. That's what she had wanted all along, he concluded. And he was supposed to be the clever one.

-o-

Violet pressed _Send_ and hoped Sherlock didn't roll his eyes at her message that was purely full of sentiment. _I missed you last night! x_

She constantly felt as if she were run off her feet, but now she could trade the time she used to set aside stalking one Sherlock Holmes for actual hands-on activities with the man himself. However last night, she and Mandi had stayed up until 2am to fulfil Mandi's Cleo de Thebes requirements, her friend's deadline being this morning. At least Violet received a sample of their latest release for her troubles.

It was a little before 6am, and Violet hoped that having less than four hours sleep wouldn't take its toll on her today. It was only a half-day, which was fortunate. Violet had scored an audition for a period drama—a mini-series—coming up on Friday, and she had wanted to spend the afternoon skimming the novel upon which the series was based to refresh her memory. _Catherine Hilderness:_ one of Violet's absolute favourite classics, and she was up for the small, but vital role of the title character at the age of nineteen.

There were two other issues currently weighing her down though: Grice Johnson and Stuart Jire. It was the dwelling on, and subsequently empathising with, Lauren Myrtle's plight that had Violet's insides roiling in disgust when she recalled her own attempted assault. She knew that confronting Grice was the only way she would get past the horror of that night. While she had no recollection of the actual assault, her loss of memory and her friends telling her that they'd found her in the alleyway were enough to traumatise her at the time. Sherlock's own recount added flavour and colour that she tried to avoid dwelling on.

The Lauren Myrtle investigation would have to wait. She didn't want to overwhelm Sherlock with too many requests.

Sherlock had suggested Thursday night for visiting the seedy bartender. Violet had initially baulked at that idea, since her audition was the very next day, but then she realised that no day would be the perfect day for confronting your would-be rapist. Thursday night it was then. Sherlock had told her that he knew Johnson's schedule intimately, and Thursdays were best. Violet didn't know what to make of that, but she was grateful that Sherlock had agreed to accompany her. Actually, it was his idea. She felt a tiny bit guilty for manipulating him into believing that.

-o-

"Are you new?"

Sherlock dragged his eyes from the ceiling tiles down to the chirpy voice of the young woman who had poked her head around _his_ office doorway.

"No," he replied with great effort, before take another drag on his cigarette and waiting for the nicotine to reveal its potency.

"It's just that I'm sorry to inform you, but we don't allow smoking in government offices."

Sherlock uncrossed his ankles, which were propped up on top of his desk, and eyed the woman critically.

He said, "Then kindly direct me to the smoking room."

The young woman— _vest hand-knitted by her late Grandmother, just been dumped by her boyfriend, and recently devoured three mini Melton Mowbray pork pies, even though she's declared herself a vegan—_ bit her bottom lip, then said, falteringly, "We... don't have a smoking room."

Sherlock planted his feet on the ground and stood up.

"Then what exactly is the point of this organisation?"

The SOCA officer didn't know how to respond to Sherlock's question as he brushed past her, exiting the office without a backward glance. Sherlock stalked toward the elevators, his cigarette still pinched between his fingers.

He had no leads on this case, and perusing the same databases, and looking at evidence that had been carefully scrutinised by the organised crime agency analysts was a waste of his time. He needed a fresh lead.

It was time to take his girlfriend out to dinner.

-o-

 _Christ!_

Violet sauntered away, leaving Sherlock both breathless and sated in his armchair.

This was beyond acceptable. He never knew what mood Violet would be in, the little he saw of her these days. One minute she was scowling at him for daring to suggest they go out for dinner— _We're meant to be_ secretly _dating!—_ then the next she had taken to performing oral sex on him while he sat in his armchair minding his own business.

Sherlock suspected that there was some kind of dialogue that had been spoken in between those two exchanges, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall it.

Sherlock cleared his throat, then stood up, tucking in his shirt and zipping up his trousers. He glanced toward the door to the landing. Of course it had been open. What had Violet been thinking? Dear old delicate Mrs Hudson could have walked in on them, feather duster in hand!

Violet was now taking a shower, he remembered her saying that much, and he was supposed to be ordering in. He scratched his head and looked about him. That's right, ordering food, so they could eat here.

After Violet had shut down his _Dinner at Angelo's_ suggestion, she had reminded him that they could eat in and snuggle, like they used to, and then she had preceded to treat him to a sampling of what snuggling entailed. She leant over him as he sat in his armchair staring morosely into the fireplace. He had been wondering how he could get Violet to talk about her life with Jacob Venucci, hoping some snippet of information would spark something in his brain, as she feared it could.

Then, he surmised, she had inhaled his cologne, her olfactory system triggering something primal within— _not his fault—_ and she had commenced unfastening his top two buttons, while her lips and tongue had laved and sucked on the soft tissue of his neck. Her hands had wandered southwards, and perhaps she'd promised something deliciously evil. Who was he to argue? His head had lolled back to rest on the top of his chair, his eyes had fluttered shut, and his mind had quieted for a moment.

Involuntary moans had escaped the detective-genius' lips as Violet released him from the confines of his underwear and her mouth began to work in earnest, committed to pleasuring him. Sherlock assumed that at some stage she would stop, gently tug on his hand to lure him to the bedroom, and they could both finish together. _Everyone a winner._

But no, she had kept going; his fingers had entwined themselves into her hair, and his hips rocked gently in ecstasy. Suddenly it was too late for negotiations; Sherlock had reached the point of no return. _Not his fault._

But, _dinner._

He spun around again. Where the hell was his phone?

Sherlock made a beeline for his bedroom. There he found Violet stretched out across his bed, damp hair, pyjama-clad, lying on her stomach, a novel held in front of her.

"Have you ordered?" she asked without looking up from the page.

"Um... no. I can't find my phone."

Violet looked up at him and smiled sweetly. "It fell out of your trouser pocket and onto the floor while you were having an orgasm," she replied, ever so helpfully. "Don't you remember?" Her large eyes sprinkled with fairy dust, and tulip-coloured lips suggested that there was no way she was at all involved in Sherlock Holmes' loss of decorum.

Sherlock scowled and exited his bedroom. His life was not his own. His Mind Palace was now an open playground where Violet Hunter cavorted and giggled and made him have spontaneous erections.

It was fine when she actually lived with him here in Baker Street. Her thought patterns, ill-placed logic, and mood-swings were all manageable when he was a witness to the genesis of her ideas and the ebbs and flows of her emotions. Now that he only saw her in small orgasm-sized moments, her statements of intent— _I want to see Grice Johnson_ —were all the more random and confusing.

Sherlock snatched up his phone from its guilty position on the floor beside his chair. He dialled the number of their favourite Chinese restaurant, and ordered _not too many carbs, I'm on a diet remember!_

With the domestic duties taken care of, it was time to be Sherlock Holmes again. And he had a witness to interrogate.

Sherlock entered his bedroom and made himself comfortable on the bed, leaning up against the bedhead and stretching out his legs perpendicularly to Violet, where she lay reading her novel.

"What are you reading?" he asked, opening the interrogation with a topic that would endear him to the witness—taking an interest in the minutiae of her life.

Violet silently rolled to her side so that Sherlock could see the title.

" _Catherine Hilderness_ ," he read from the cover. "Is it... any... good?" It was difficult forming the words needed for small-talk with Violet. All the practise he had over the years, giving him the vocabulary he needed so that it rolled off his tongue with the ease at which other people held conversations with their hairdressers, wasn't something he normally applied to Violet. He was well-versed with using this skill to glean information from witnesses or suspects, to pick up women by assuming another identity; but this was Violet Hunter, the woman who told him that Sherlock Holmes in his natural habitat was worthy of being loved.

So, in his natural habitat, he cared little to hear the finer details of Violet's career aspirations.

Violet lowered her book, then sat up. Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes sparkled with a little too much enthusiasm for Sherlock's liking. Her mouth opened and shut several times, and Sherlock could tell that she was talking animatedly about the novel. However, he could hear none of her words, because his automatic filter had immediately switched itself on and had muted the sound.

Sherlock discreetly coughed, jolting his mind into concentration. He now caught snatches of her monologue, like a phone going in and out of range.

"So this is for your audition?" he finally asked, pleased to at least sound like he was an active listener.

Apparently it was for her audition, Violet told him, and she was fortunate that she wasn't required at the studio at all on Friday. Her audition was at 1pm and she would be a nervous wreck _the entire morning._

"I've been put up for quite a few parts now, but I'm not being picked up for anything. I don't want to get my hopes up, but I think this part is so _me._ Catherine in her formative years..."

Sherlock knitted his brows together. It was getting a tad hard to concentrate. Phrases such as _"struggling with her own identity and her place in society"_ were whooshing by him. Thankfully he caught the last snatches of Violet's words.

"So I think I'll sleep over on Thursday night, after we visit Grice Johnson, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, deep in thought. There was something a bit not good about being around Violet when she was a nervous wreck, and Thursday night's encounter with the cowardly bartender was another reason to dread the end of the week. But he was supposed to be focussed on his case. He would find time to stress about those two events a little later. Now was the time to turn the conversation to something related to Manchester and the organised crime bosses who lived and worked there.

-oOo-


	6. He Fell Out of a Window

**Chapter 5** **\- He Fell Out of A Window**

Violet tilted her head back, letting the warm shower spray cascade over her face. She ducked her head again and wiped at her eyes. She was wired and pumped. It had been an intense workout, and coupled with a successful day of filming, she was in the right frame of mind for confronting that fucking low-life.

She wondered how Sherlock had fared earlier this afternoon. She'd felt bad about insisting he apologise to Mandi, but it would be a less stressful existence if her best friend didn't tut and mutter curse words under her breath whenever Violet mentioned Sherlock's name.

She knew Sherlock was desperately trying to keep her on side, especially since she had called him on his not-so-sly attempt last night at eliciting information from her about Jake and his dodgy dealings in Manchester. So the Consulting Detective had reluctantly agreed to say sorry to Mandi for breaking her security chain and generally terrorising her. Violet had told him that Mandi had most of Thursday off since she worked both Thursday and Friday nights.

Violet hadn't stayed the night, reminding Sherlock, once again, that she hadn't been planning to. She had a busy day ahead, and she would just meet him in the evening at the park around the corner from Grice Johnson's flat, like they had organised.

Violet stepped out of the shower and dried herself, before twisting her hair up into her towel wrap. She dressed slowly, her thoughts drifting to that other horrid man in her life. There was something about being naked in the studio that would trigger her imagination to run wild—thoughts of Stuart Jire and his obsession with Lauren Myrtle, a _Regency Road_ actress when the soap was in its early days.

Jire was one of the first script writers on the show, Violet learnt, through her co-stars' recount of events. He was only in his mid-twenties, not that much older than Lauren herself.

"Of course, he was obsessed with her," Meredith, Violet's on-screen mother, whispered to her.

"He was responsible for getting her to dye her hair blonde," Annabeth, another co-star, added. "Naturally he was very upset when she wanted to quit the show."

"She ended up playing a nurse in... now what was it called?" Meredith queried, her finger to her lips in deep thought.

"But what happened to Lauren?" Violet urged her co-star. She knew Meredith had a tendency to drift off on another tangent.

Annabeth chimed in. "He kept calling her—asking her out on dates."

"They did date for a while," Meredith continued, back on track again. "Or maybe it was one date... I don't remember."

Violet had been quite aware that the clock was ticking and if she didn't get Meredith to tell her the whole story before they were due on set, she may never get the woman to focus long enough on a subsequent occasion, and Annabeth only spoke when Meredith did, as if she needed the prompting or permission to talk about particular subjects. Eventually Violet learnt that Lauren found Jire too intense. She started dating other men.

"But she was a tease," Annabeth volunteered. "She still strung Stuart along. And then, one day, she was just dead. In a hotel room."

"Strangled by her own silk stockings," Meredith said.

"A young man she was dating at the time was arrested, but he protested his innocence. And there wasn't enough evidence on him anyway, so he was released. But we all knew it was Stuart," Annabeth said, scowling. "Suddenly he was engaged to that shy production assistant. Remember her? She was always dropping the sides."

"Had two children by her," Meredith added, leaning forward, as if that was the only confidential topic out of everything they had already discussed. "Now, what was her name?"

"And then there was... hmmm, I don't remember her name, but another blonde ten years later," Annabeth said.

"Now, she took out a restraining order," said Meredith.

"On Stuart?" Violet asked.

"Well, yes, of course," replied Annabeth. "But he said it was all a misunderstanding. Still, she said she always felt like she was being stalked."

"Then _her_ silk stockings went missing." Meredith touched Violet gently on her knee. "Don't wear silk stockings around our Mr Jire, love."

"But how do you know he was involved in Lauren's death?" Violet asked.

"Oh, we just know. They way you know these things."

Annabeth nodded vigorously, and Violet knew that some things were just not worth pursuing, not in this way, not with these unreliable witnesses. But she was determined to investigate further, and get Sherlock involved in re-opening the cold case.

Violet swiftly blow-dried her hair, then dressed, before joining Priyal at the entrance to the studio annex that housed the gym, canteen, and storage rooms. They walked together back to their dressing room. Violet needed to grab the rest of her gear, and say goodbye to Chenoa and Priyal who were filming night scenes. She was only half-listening to Priyal telling her that Chenoa had a secret date, and their blonde co-star was reluctant to reveal the much older man's identity.

A shiver ran down Violet's back at the thought that the Chenoa's mystery date could possibly be Stuart Jire. She shook those thoughts loose. _No. Surely not!_

-o-

Sherlock straightened up and surveyed his handwork. Mandi had resumed flipping through a magazine as she sat on her sofa. At least she had stopped glaring and tapping her foot impatiently as he worked on her door lock. His idea to install a Smart Lock, giving Mandi PIN access to her front door, was a master-stroke. Mandi could lock and unlock her door using an app on her phone, she could give other people access remotely, and her letting agency wouldn't object, because it would benefit them in the long run as well.

He really was a genius. And now for phase two of endearing Violet's BFF to himself.

"And if you have anybody else stay over, for example, Violet, when she's helping you with your perfume inventory, you can give her a temporary PIN that expires within a day or two."

Sherlock's mouth gave a hint of a smile, and his eyes glistened with warmth. He knew this, because he'd practised the expression in the mirror on previous occasions. Mandi's face softened a little. She found it hard to maintain an aloofness when Sherlock took a seat on the sofa next to her and proceeded to show her amazing things on the Smart Lock app he'd installed on her iPhone.

"You know," he added, lowering his voice to a confidential pitch, "Violet is extremely grateful for the support you gave her during our... unfortunate separation."

Mandi quirked an interested eyebrow. She didn't know Sherlock that well, and this ignorance was what he was counting on. She had no idea that the detective's sincerity was as genuine as a Tamagotchi pet.

He leant forward, going in for the kill, his elbows resting on his knees. The corners of his mouth turned down a little, his eyes grew larger. There would be no doubt in Mandi's mind as to the veracity of his words.

"It was a very stressful time for her, what with her theatre work, and the endless auditions after that." He paused, because his next statement needed to ooze with sincerity. "She always thrives on the support and selflessness of genuine friends, and there is no doubt in my mind that her recent successes are due, in a large part, to your close friendship."

Mandi straightened a little, and her jaw jutted out. Sherlock's words had worked their magic.

"But she moved in with Alice, so..." Mandi added, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly, "I guess she had her acting friends too."

"Oh, that Alice," Sherlock said, sighing resignedly. "She's a bit... shallow, isn't she?"

Mandi's eyes widened and she leant in closer to Sherlock. "Do you know what Alice said to me the other day?"

-o-

It was with an embarrassed _Cheerio!_ that Grice Johnson's last client bid him as she hastily closed the door on the _SlimmerNow!_ Delivery Service. Grice knew why. The fucking tub of lard didn't want her neighbours to see that she was getting her meals delivered weekly, and more importantly, that she was on a diet.

Grice tucked his clipboard underneath his arm as he strode determinedly toward his delivery van. Thursdays were always busier than any other day of the week, with the exception of Monday. Grice theorised that some of the clients who had no self-discipline, would actually finish one week's worth of products before the week was up, and then they had to order another batch on Wednesday, allowing half a day for delivery, giving him his busy Thursday delivery schedule.

The sun was just peaking below the horizon, and there was a distinct chill in the air. Grice rubbed his hands together, then climbed into his van. He'd order in pizza tonight, minus the mushrooms. He hated the slimy bastards. Ginny, his girl, would come home after midnight. She would finish her shift at the local Tesco Express, and if he was lucky, she'd knock-off a litre of Smirnoff Red Label Vodka, not that Tesco Everyday Value shit. The last time she had brought that one home, the pair of them had smashed through it. But his dumb cunt of a girlfriend had vomited all over his living room rug. And he hadn't even got round to shagging her.

It didn't matter. He didn't have to look at her anyway or smell her puke-splattered face. Grice looked forward to their binge-drinking sessions. The slag was a prude, truth be told. She could only cope with the missionary position. When sober. But when she was unconscious, he could turn her over, spit on his hands and rip her a new one. Surely she knew that? Probably secretly enjoyed it, the filthy whore.

Grice shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat and readjusted his trousers. It wouldn't do to start thinking about romancing his girl just now. He had a long drive home, and he had to keep a clear head. He was sure that every shadow held that psychotic detective. The prick was stalking him. He didn't know for sure if that soapie bitch's boyfriend was behind drugging Grice and dumping him underneath Blackfriars Bridge, but every night, in the back of his mind, there was always the possibility of the _next visit._

Grice carefully edged the van against the kerb just outside his flat. He preferred his new residence to his old flat in Woodberry Downs. And the neighbours were okay. Especially that old geezer's granddaughter. Now she was fucking ripe for the picking.

Perhaps now that he lived with his girl he would no longer be tormented by that public-schooled git. Maybe the posh fuck was all talk, and he couldn't find Grice once he'd moved after all. Perhaps shadows were just that. Shadows.

 _And if you happen to move, Mr Johnson... I - will - find - you._

Grice shuddered at the memory of the detective's deep baritone. "Yeah, sure you will, you pale, skinny cunt _,_ " Grice muttered under his breath as he jiggled his house keys loose and trudged up the path toward his front door. _And maybe I'll fuck your dumb bitch girlfriend too. Bet she'd love having a real man's cock up her twat._

Pushing open the front door, Grice encountered a darkened hallway. He swore, reeling off half a dozen terms of endearment to his absent girlfriend. He'd told the ugly bitch a dozen times to leave the hallway light on for him. He chucked his keys onto the entrance table and shrugged out of his jacket. Reaching up, he flipped the light switch. When nothing happened, he toggled the switch several times more.

"Fucking cunt," he said on an exhale, thinking that his useless girlfriend should be responsible for anticipating blown lightbulbs as well.

He strode the length of the passageway in darkness. Turning into the kitchen, he reached up and flicked the switch by the door.

 _Fuck!_

As the overhead light illuminated the tiny kitchen-dining area, a darkened figure sitting comfortably at his dining table stood up.

It was her!

"Hello, darling," she said, and Grice was momentarily thrown. Her accent was all posh, and not Northern like it is on the telly. Of course he'd spoken to her several times in the club, but that was basically yelling over the loud music and it was difficult to gauge accents.

What was she doing here? And why was she looking at him with such affection in her eyes.

"Did you have a lovely day?" she asked, smiling sweetly.

Grice's head was buzzing. This wasn't right. This was exactly like his fantasies, so how could this be reality? He opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out.

She tilted her head quizzically, as if she were concerned for his lack of response.

"Would you like to fuck me now?" she asked casually. "Or would you like to spike my drink first?"

Grice blinked in confusion. He'd never seen her looking so beautiful before, dressed in black, a tight-fitting top, and jeans, and those thigh-high fuck-me boots, like the pair she was wearing when he almost had her. She took a sip from a tumbler that had sat on the table in front of her. Her eyes never left his.

Her lips were full and wet when she returned the glass to the table. Those lips, the ones he imagined wrapping themselves around his cock. And wet, because she wanted him. This was a scene from one of his favourite pornos that he frequently jacked off to. But this was wrong, and alarm bells were ringing in his head.

She stepped closer, her smile returning.

Grice felt a familiar stirring in his groin, followed immediately by a cold hand clenching his heart.

"Where's... where's your fucking cunt of a boyfriend?" he managed to rasp.

The actress stopped, her mouth forming a tiny 'o'. She looked seriously affronted. And then something flashed in her eyes, marring that beautiful, sweet face.

Suddenly all the air whooshed out of Grice's lungs, as something collided with his chest, and he bent double, gasping. He hadn't seen it coming. She'd winded him, the bitch!

"That's not nice," she said in her sweet, psychotic voice, puffing a little after her sudden onset of physical exertion. She stepped back from him. All Grice could see were her fuck-me boots as he stooped toward the kitchen tiles.

He could feel his face turning red as he fought to suck in air. He'd kill her! He'd fuck her first, then he'd kill her. He could lunge for her and smash her sweet, smiley-cunt face into the table.

Before he could execute his plans, there was sudden rush of movement. He tried to straighten up, but felt her hands on the back of his head, and then a sharp blow to his face, rattling his whole skull.

 _Fuck! FUCK!_

Grice collapsed onto the floor, as the bitch lowered the knee she'd used to smash him in the face.

"He's really very sweet once you get to know him," she was saying.

Grice could hardly hear; his ears were ringing. Was she really talking about her boyfriend? Grice's nose and cheeks were exploding with pain. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if seeing the colours and patterns of his cold floor tiles would further accentuate the pain. He rolled sideways.

His eyes fluttered open when he thought he sensed movement at the entrance to his living room.

"So this is your flat?" the psycho bitch was asking, conversationally, as if he'd invited her in for a drink and some arse-fuckery.

But Grice wasn't listening to her sweet-talk. His head was screaming in pain, and he could feel blood seeping from his nose, but that wasn't what had caused a burning wetness to materialise between his legs. He'd pissed himself. Because of the shoes.

Men's shoes, attached to trousers. Standing at the edge of his living room.

"And you've got yourself a girlfriend?" she was asking. She was moving toward him now, but Grice couldn't respond to her. He lay frozen, and in pain, and he wanted to curl up tighter into the foetal position and cry.

Because of the shoes.

The psychotic actress bent over him, blocking his view of the shoes. She grabbed his hair and said in that same sweet soothing voice, "Sherlock says you've been getting drunk with your girlfriend. I don't know how he knows that, the naughty boy."

Grice gurgled in fear of the name. The name of the owner of the shoes.

"But anyway," she continued, "I hope you don't fuck her when she's unconscious." She brought her face closer to his. She smelled divine. Perfume and shampoo and soap and makeup. "Because that would be such bad form," she whispered.

"Come now, Violet," spoke the deep, rumbling baritone of the devil in the shoes. "I think he's learnt his lesson."

Grice Johnson whimpered just a little.

"I was saving the best til last," she lamented. "But I don't want to ruin my boots." Violet Hunter made a point of looking at Grice's sodden crotch. She dragged her eyes back to his face again, and her eyes lit up when she saw that he was staring back at her. She reached out and patted him on the arm. "I was going to demand that you say sorry to me, but I think we've run out of time. You get yourself cleaned up," she said in a low voice. "And we'll save all that for next time."

She straightened up then stepped over him as she made for the kitchen exit. Grice hugged his knees. The men's shoes stopped in front of him. Grice dared not look up.

"I really like your new digs," Sherlock Holmes told him warmly. The detective also stepped over Grice's curled-up body. "Can't wait to see where you end up next time."

-o-

Sherlock rubbed Violet's back as she spat the last of her vomit onto the alleyway pavers. She leant her forehead heavily against the brick wall and sucked in air. She stared at her nice, new boots. They now sported tiny splashes of vomit. So much for not kicking Grice Johnson in the groin for fear of getting urine on the suede.

"I don't know how you manage to do that all the time," she said wearily.

"That's not something I do all the time," Sherlock replied. He continued gently rubbing her back.

Violet straightened up and turned to face him. She sniffed, then wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm going to ace that fucking audition tomorrow."

A smile grew on Sherlock's face. "That's the spirit," he said.

-oOo-


	7. An Advert for Companionship

**Chapter 6** **– An Advert for Companionship**

Sherlock internally tutted when he felt the mattress shift and bounce once more. He pretended he was still asleep so that Violet didn't try to talk to him again.

"Sherlock. Are you awake?" she whispered.

 _Most idiotic question of the century, and one that should be ignored in the interests of logic._

"I know you are," Violet said, sighing. Sherlock sensed movement as Violet slid her naked body over to his, and pressed herself against his back as he lay on his side facing away from her. "I still can't sleep."

"Clearly."

"And it's so fucking annoying."

"Yes. It is."

Violet was silent for a moment or two and Sherlock thought that at least now he could drift back into a deep slumber once more. But it was not to be. Violet's voice floated through the darkness again.

"I can't stop thinking about him."

Sherlock exhaled loudly, reached out, and switched on his bedside lamp. Violet slid away from him a little so he could roll onto his back. Sherlock propped himself up onto his elbows so he could check the time on the digital clock that sat on the bedside table across the bed.

"You know it's almost 5am," he said, sliding down once more, "so you could quite conceivably stay awake now."

He stretched out an arm, inviting Violet to lie on his chest.

"That's awful—how can it be?" she complained, making herself comfortable in Sherlock's embrace. "I've been awake since midnight."

"I doubt it. You've probably had a broken sleep, disrupted by mentally replaying our visit over and over. I'm sure you slept for some of it."

"I don't know. But I feel exhausted." Violet waited a beat before adding, "I really think I've done something wrong."

Sherlock allowed silence to thicken around them both until he spoke again. "Violet, you haven't done anything wrong. Think of it as a delayed response to your own assault. Your attack on Mr Johnson wasn't unprovoked. Stop thinking along those lines."

"I didn't get him to say sorry, which was the whole point."

"Do you believe he would have?"

Sherlock listened to Violet's shallow breathing while she pondered her answer.

"I don't know. But he called you a cunt, which made me so angry I almost came out of character."

Sherlock allowed a deep-throated chuckle to escape him. "You did well to stay in character until the very end," he said. "Do you often vomit at the end of a scene though?"

"It's not quite the same," Violet said, having lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "I haven't deliberately set out to cause someone that much physical pain before."

Sherlock gently caressed Violet's arm with his thumb. A heady rush of protectiveness for this women who lay curled up in his embrace surged through him.

He said, "And think about how much Grice's assault on you was pre-meditated, hmm? The man is a creep. He hasn't changed his behaviour at all. Perhaps your little visit will prompt him to. Now think about that for a moment."

Violet's silence gave Sherlock hope that she was absorbing some of his words. Because she began playing with the sparse amount of hair on his chest, he knew she wasn't going to drift back to sleep anytime soon.

Eventually, she tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

"Thanks," she whispered. "But I'm still not going to fall asleep."

"Then get up," Sherlock bid her, tapping Violet on the back. "Have a cup of tea, go for a jog, then shower and change back into pyjamas. I'll even speak to you in my soothing voice once you get back and I'll have you asleep in no time."

Violet raised herself up on her elbows and hovered over Sherlock a little.

"No orgasm?" she asked, her eyes huge and round and shiny with hope.

"We tried that," Sherlock replied, smiling meekly. "Twice."

Violet returned Sherlock's smile, then nestled herself in his embrace once more. "Maybe jogging will help. Don't let me sleep for more than a couple of hours, though. My audition's straight after lunch." Violet yawned widely, then asked, "So what will you talk to me about?"

Sherlock carefully considered his vast repertoire of topics. Clearly nothing that demonstrated how clever he was; he didn't want to arouse Violet at all. He needed something that only he would find interesting. The aim was to soothe Violet to sleep. Finally he stated, "I once wrote a post on my blog about one hundred and sixty separate ciphers traditionally used amongst spies during the Cold War, and how they relate to the modern usage of encryption keys to combat cyber-crime."

Violet chuckled, and turned her head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Were you having a slow day?"

"I didn't have a girlfriend at the time."

Violet's smile lit up her whole face. She responded, "Well, that sounds perfect."

-o-

Violet discreetly tried to smile at Spencer as he signed his name with an exaggerated flourish. The two blushing young women gushed out a _thank you!_ before leaving Violet alone with her actor flatmate at their table supposedly hidden away in an alcove. The exclusive café across from Holland Park in west London did little to dissuade the over-zealous fans from approaching the _Hibbert and Platt_ star.

"I'll never get used to that," he said, smiling sheepishly. "It's a bizarre thing, isn't it?"

"I thought it was a social faux pas to approach a celebrity while they're dining," Violet chided Spencer. "It'll only get worse. Just wait til the premiere."

Spencer wrinkled his nose. "Mmm, I think all of the screaming fangirls will be there for Tim."

"Tim?" Violet laughed. " _Mister_ Killaney to the rest of us," she joked, referring to Spencer's co-star, the well-respected, young Shakespearean actor, Timothy Killaney.

Spencer fiddled with his napkin, and looked down, prompting Violet to wonder about her companion's discomfort. Shooting on the mini-series had finished, but Spencer wasn't short of offers.

"Come on," he said, suddenly snapping himself out of his dark mood and tapping the table in front of Violet's tea cup. "Let's get back to over-analysing your audition."

Violet popped the last morsel of her scone into her mouth and chewed methodically, conceding the change of subject. Spencer leant forward again, leaning his elbows onto the table. He had been reciting his personal checklist for a successful audition before they had been interrupted by the autograph hunters. After "read-through went great, chat was awesome, and positive vibes all round," he was up to, "the goodbye."

"We all shook hands, and they said 'Great, really great, talk to you soon,'" Violet replied.

"There," Spencer said, slapping the table. "You nailed it."

Violet's heart fluttered, but she wanted to stifle the emotion for fear of jinxing herself. She appreciated Spencer's casual confirmation, but she herself did think her audition went really well, probably the best experience she'd had in a long while.

 _They want you to read for them_ , Polly Stoper, her agent had said on pitching the role to her, but Violet had to sit with a couple of other actresses in the waiting room and was told by the receptionist that they were running thirty minutes behind schedule. So she kept it in her head that it was just an audition, like any other, and she had as much chance as the next. During her audition, they did have a good long chat about Violet's interpretation of Catherine, the title character, her strengths and weaknesses, and how Violet would re-imagine her should the 19th Century heroine find herself in the 21st Century.

But _the goodbye,_ she thought, replaying that moment in her head. They'd farewelled her through the _open door to the waiting area_.

Violet remembered only too well that sinking feeling she'd had before, at previous auditions, where an actress who had auditioned before her had been farewelled by the director like a long lost friend. And naturally, Violet never won any of those parts but she had been completely envious of those actresses who appeared to be successful, and _known,_ and were treated as such during auditions.

Was this going to be her own experiences now? Or would she eventually fade into obscurity, to be known as _that actress who was once on Regency Road._

Violet gulped down the rest of her tea as Spencer grabbed his phone when it chimed with a text message. A sly grin grew on his face as he read the message, and he hastily stood up.

"Gotta go," he said.

"Hot date?" Violet said facetiously, also rising from her chair.

"Is there any other?" he quipped, and Violet was relieved to see that old sparkle in his eye again.

Spencer leant over and planted a kiss on Violet's cheek.

"See you at home," he said.

She watched him leave, turning heads as he did so, making a mental note to spend more time at home with him, and chatting like they used to when Alice wasn't around. There was definitely something going on with him these days.

Violet retrieved her own phone from her bag. As she left the café, she tried to text and walk simultaneously. She'd find out if Sherlock was home yet. If anyone was going to bring her back down to earth in regard to her acting career, it would be the Consulting Detective. And she needed a dose of Humble if she was going to spend all weekend waiting for her agent to call.

-o-

Violet scanned the paper that was spread out in the air in front of her. How could she not? It was two feet in front of her vision and it kept making a rustling noise whenever the pages were turned. Sports headlines to her left, Parliamentary scandal to her right. The paper jiggled a bit, the voice behind it said "Christ, what a joke!" before the newspaper was cast aside in favour of a sip of tea.

"Good article?" Violet asked Sherlock as the detective dipped his soldier into the bright yellow yolk of his boiled egg and took a bite.

"Mmm," the detective replied, still managing to read part of an article even though he'd folded the paper into quarters and had lain it down next to his plate.

"So..." Violet began, after taking a sip of her tea, "what are you plans for the weekend?"

Violet and Sherlock had been back together as a couple since Friday night last—just over one week ago. It was beginning to feel exactly like old times, Violet thought, right down to Sherlock's attention span.

"More of this," he replied with his mouth still full. His answer actually surprised Violet. He'd responded without her having to ask the same question three or more times.

"More of what?"

Sherlock swallowed his toast. "This..." he said, waving a hand across the table and not looking up from the newspaper.

"Eating?" she queried.

"Existing."

Violet quirked a smile as she stabbed at her omelette. She popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly. At least he'd made an effort last night, she thought, brightening at the memory.

She'd arrived in his flat, grumbling about the rain and admittedly whining about needing a new umbrella. Sherlock had been sitting in his armchair and he had jumped up upon her arrival. Then she'd launched into a verbal essay concerning the loss of the great English afternoon tea because she and Spencer had to scour all of the tea houses and coffee shops in and around Kensington and Chelsea before finding one that would serve cream tea.

"All I wanted was a scone with clotted cream and jam. How hard is that?"

She'd dumped her handbag and shed her coat before hastening over to Sherlock and restarting her greeting with a "Hello." She planted a soft kiss on his lips. Only then did she slow down.

Sherlock seemed agitated himself, and it only later dawned on Violet the reason why. He offered her tea, his brow wrinkled, his manner pensive. Violet, still shivering and cold from the sudden afternoon downpour, said she'd have a shower to warm up first, then she'd join him. Halfway through her shower, Sherlock burst in, a triumphant look on his face.

He asked her, "How was your audition?"

Violet replied briefly that it was fantastic, and that she was very pleased with how it went. Sherlock offered no comment and swept out of his ensuite, presumably to continue in his tea making. As Violet rinsed the shampoo from her hair, she came to the realisation that Sherlock knew there was something important he had to remember about Violet's day, but he couldn't immediately recall the specifics. Once he'd remembered, though, he'd been so caught up in the delivery, that he hadn't stuck around for the answer.

Violet regarded the detective-genius in front of her now. Brow furrowed in concentration once more, but this time he was stabbing his soldier into his egg.

Sherlock clucked his tongue and lamented, "Mrs Hudson knows I like my dippy eggs runnier than this."

Violet bit her bottom lip to refrain from laughing at Sherlock's affectionate name for his breakfast. He'd said the same to the landlady, who hadn't blinked at all as if she'd heard the Consulting Detective utter _dippy egg_ on previous occasions. Mrs Hudson had asked both Violet and Sherlock if they had wanted eggs for breakfast as she had bought an extra box. Violet had opted for an omelette, while Sherlock had, after a moment's serious contemplation, requested _dippy egg and soldiers_. It was right up there with _eggy bread_ —Sherlock's name for French toast—as one of the most endearing things she'd ever heard Sherlock say. She couldn't wait to find out more about his childhood, should she ever meet his mother.

The same mother, that is, who'd made Sherlock's older brother buy him a Christmas present as punishment.

Violet silently contemplated Sherlock's elder sibling and the contents of the file he had accumulated. She shuddered at the thought of the photos Sherlock had seen.

"Sherlock," she said, her voice pitched low.

Sherlock rose from his seat, his eyes still drawn to the paper for a moment, before he slapped it down, seemingly coming out of his bubble of concentrated reading.

"Now, where's my computer?" he asked, turning this way and that, taking in the living room at large.

Violet huffed in frustration at Sherlock's apparent dismissal of her.

"It's there," she said, pointing to the coffee table where she had dumped Sherlock's laptop underneath a pile of papers. She had cleared the living room table so they could eat breakfast like civilised people.

Sherlock turned from her, striding over to the sofa. Violet regarded him through narrow eyes before deciding to clear the table first, and command his attention later.

She left their plates soaking in the kitchen sink, then re-entered the living room to find her boyfriend sitting comfortably on the sofa, his legs resting on the coffee table and the computer perched on his lap. With furrowed brow, his fingers danced across the keyboard. He didn't look up when Violet curled up beside him.

"No," he said.

"What?"

Sherlock's gaze remained firmly fixed on his screen.

"No, don't cuddle and kiss me. I'm working. My inbox is overflowing since I've been holed up in Vauxhall all week, and I have to sort the idiots from the morons."

"I don't want to cuddle. I need to ask you something about those photos you had."

Sherlock continued to scowl and tut and irritably press the keys. Violet decided she needed to get his attention.

"The photos of me fucking Jake."

Sherlock dragged his eyes from the screen and locked them with Violet's.

"Hmm?"

Now that she had the Consulting Detective's undivided attention, Violet started again.

"The surveillance photos of me, the ones your brother acquired. I assume the originals are somewhere—negatives, or digital files or... whatever? They'd be worth something to the press if... if someone were to get their hands on them."

Sherlock's expression had softened as Violet spoke.

"No," Sherlock replied, and one hand left the keyboard as he drew his arm up to rest along the back of the sofa. "They were stored in SOCA's database, so I had Mycroft authorise their deletion."

"SOCA?"

"The Serious Organised Crime Agency. Any data they stored relating to you I had destroyed shortly into the new year." A tiny smile grew on the detective's face as he spoke. "There was that scandal in one of those rubbish newspapers involving a retired detective and some photos they'd uncovered of him smoking cannabis with a prostitute in his youth. Naturally my thoughts drifted to you—"

"Naturally."

"—and the file my brother kept. So I decided that removing all traces of your seedy past would be in your best interests, given your status as a minor celebrity. So I set my brother the task, one he was only delighted to undertake, because he was extremely guilt-ridden and ashamed of his previous actions—"

"Was he?"

"I like to make him think so. Any chance I get."

Sherlock flashed Violet a broad, closed-mouth smile, before turning back to his screen. His expression immediately returned to a scowl and he tutted at whatever he was reading.

Violet stared at his profile, her brain a whirl. So Sherlock had received a new coat from his brother, while Violet had any evidence pertaining to her connections to organised crime wiped from a government database. Was this a typical token of remorse within the mysterious Holmes family?

Whatever it was, Violet's heart swelled with love for Sherlock, who had once again demonstrated that he had still looked out for her when they weren't together.

"Sherlock," she said quietly. "Thank you." She reached out and cupped his face, gently turning it her way when she noted that he probably hadn't registered her speaking.

When his eyes met hers, she thanked him again, then pressed a soft kiss to his lips. She felt Sherlock respond, a slight pucker of his lips, before he was drawing back. Not wanting to interrupt him any longer, Violet gave him one last smile then rose from the sofa. She drifted back to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.

-oOo-


	8. I Was Working

**Chapter 7 – I Was Working**

Sherlock watched Violet disappear into the kitchen, a smug smile of satisfaction gracing his lips. This thoughtful boyfriend lark was easy, he thought. Redirecting his attention back to the email in front of him, all thoughts of domestic life in Baker Street disappeared from his mind. There was an engagement ring missing—a family heirloom—and if all synapses were firing this morning, he would have it solved within the hour, and from the sanctity of his flat. But first, he needed to peruse the layout of the land in Google maps.

Sherlock noted Violet silently pottering around him, obviously leaving him to his work. She may have said something to him, something sweet, no doubt, for she had kissed his forehead at one stage. She also took a seat next to him, again, and told him something trivial. It didn't matter if he hadn't really absorbed her words. He had hummed and nodded vaguely in all the right places, while his eyes and mind were virtually navigating the lanes surrounding his client's country estate and devising schemes and motivations for all of the relevant players in his current case.

Once he had fired off a final email to his client, advising him of the woodshed that currently housed the ring stolen by the gardener's nephew, Sherlock called out in the direction of the kitchen, "How about tea?"

Sherlock paused, his senses taking in the stagnant air of his flat that indicated, apart from himself, that there were no signs of life.

"Violet?"

 _Wasn't she just pottering around in there a moment ago?_

Sherlock stood up, noting that his joints were stiff. Had he been sitting on the sofa for a lot longer than an hour? The light filtering through his living room windows told the detective that it wasn't morning tea time.

It was evening.

Sherlock had been absorbed in his case for the entire day.

A mild panic flittered through his mind, before he dismissed it as a silly over-reaction. He strode through the kitchen toward his bedroom, tentatively calling for Violet one more time. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knew she wasn't here. Sherlock patted his pockets and spun around.

 _Where's my phone?_

He had a vague recollection of it ringing at some stage during the morning, and he had made a mental note to check for messages later. Although it wasn't morning, was it? It had probably been ringing all day.

Eventually he spied the device sitting on the table between his armchair and the fireplace.

As the screen illuminated, Sherlock's heart sank at the number of notifications he read there: four missed calls and one text message from Violet. Steeling himself for the worst, Sherlock navigated to his girlfriend's message.

 _You haven't noticed I've left, have you?_

It had been sent three hours ago.

Sherlock set his jaw firmly. This was not going to be good. He trawled back through the call log, and determined that the chronology of events was this: Violet had phoned him twice, then sent him the text, and had subsequently followed up with two more calls.

Sherlock's thumb hovered over his girlfriend's photo, the one Violet had assigned to her own contact listing during the last week. She had taken a selfie—head and shoulders only—using Sherlock's phone one evening, telling him, "Every time you see this, you'll remember that this is what I looked like just before you gave me the most amazing orgasm I've ever had." She had chuckled, plonked his phone back down onto his chest, and whispered in his ear, "Or it's a photo of me just before you denied me sex. You choose."

Sherlock had resented Violet's appalling attempt at blackmail, and he then trapped the actress underneath his body and said, "Or it's a photo of you just before I denied you an orgasm. As for sex…"

Obviously he had a worthy opponent. Sherlock studied the photo of Violet that she'd taken before he'd given her one orgasm she'd never forget. He was going to have to get this over and done with. Perhaps all of the frantic calls were because she'd been kidnapped, and she was being held for ransom.

Sherlock could only live in hope.

"Hello."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He'd already deduced the nature of Violet's greeting. There was an abundance of background noises, a crowd, laughter, the tinkling of glasses and the dull thud of music. She was at a pub then, and he was supposed to join her and her friends. She was clearly seething because she had told them they'd get to meet her new boyfriend and he hadn't shown up.

But they weren't meant to be seen in public together. He'd have her on a technicality!

"Hello," he responded, a little too jovially. "You'll be happy to know I've solved the case without leaving the flat." His strategy—appeal to Violet's love for his brilliance.

"And why would I be happy about that?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion, unless of course the icy wind that blew across the Antarctic could be classified as an emotion.

"Be—cause…" he said hesitantly. _I'm really clever. And you love it when I solve cases, in fact, you get off on me telling you in painstaking detail just how I go about—_

"Obviously you're not coming over," Violet said, interrupting his thought process.

"Um…"

 _Coming over_ , he thought, idly curious about her choice of words. _Coming over. Not 'coming here.' Coming_ here _would mean wherever she was, like at a pub. Coming_ over _meant her place. Her flat. In Islington, with her annoying flatmates. Not a public place then, and therefore well within the parameters of our—_

"Sherlock."

"Uh… no."

"So when you agreed to dinner you actually had no intention of coming."

 _Dinner_ , Sherlock thought in distaste. But he waited before responding in case Violet had any other epiphanies and deductions, which she'd probably deliver in the same soul-less way.

"In fact," she continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even know what you had agreed to."

Now she was onto something. He'd better join the conversation now that she'd come closer to the truth of the matter.

"Violet, I was working."

"So you didn't know what I'd asked you?"

"No."

"When you nodded and went 'mm'?"

"I solved the case in a spectacular fashion," he said, as he commenced pacing across his living room rug. "Admittedly, it didn't involve a high speed chase, or leaping across the rooftops of London, but I did deduce that the nephew—"

"Sherlock, I don't fucking care. That's just plain rude."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and felt his skin flush. He couldn't believe he was being chastised for _working_. He was a professional, and highly regarded among his clients. In fact, he'd bet that the last three beeps from the vicinity of his computer were emails from his last client creaming himself that Sherlock had solved his case within a day, without leaving the flat. No call out fee! Did he even have a call out fee?

But here was Violet, who had—unsuccessfully—tried to interrupt his focus during an important case! And she had the nerve to be angry with him!

"You know, what's rude is you talking to me when I'm working."

The background noise lessened somewhat, and Sherlock's first impression was that everyone had been listening in on their conversation and they had all stopped talking, poised for Violet's response. He soon realised that the music had dulled as well, which meant it was more likely that Violet had moved away from the others and/or she'd shut a door to give herself some privacy. Either way, it wasn't a good sign.

"Then you should've said, 'Violet, I'm working, can we talk about it later?'"

"That would require conscious effort," Sherlock explained, "and would direct my thoughts away from my case."

"So nodding and making agreeable noises is something you do without conscious effort?"

"Exactly!" Now they were getting somewhere. Sherlock knew she'd catch up sooner or later. "It's like when you draw back your hand after touching a hot saucepan. It's a survival mechanism, a reflex."

"So you _pretending_ to listen to me is a matter of survival?"

"Ye-es." Why was she asking that as if it were a bad thing? "The survival of our relationship," he added, puffing out his chest a little. Here it comes, he thought. Violet laughing. A high tinkle of a laugh, and if she were here in front of him, her eyes would moisten, she'd reach out and rub his arm, then say, _Oh, Sherlock,_ because he was being silly and lovable, and he was still learning all about relationships, and she loved that about him. So... cue Violet's laughter.

Instead, he was met with silence.

-o-

Sherlock couldn't believe he had come to this decision. Admittedly, it had taken him four or five hours; it was now just after 11pm, so surely the dinner party would be finished.

Sherlock looked about him, up and down the busy streets of Crouch End. The Saturday night crowd thrived and jostled, and had grown exponentially the later it became. Some people were dashing about, running on their toes, heads bowed, collars pulled up, and others had just resigned themselves to the rain, standing around small groups, huddling and laughing together.

The detective stepped closer to the stoop and out of the rain himself, then vigorously rubbed a hand through his hair to remove excess water drops. Exhaling deeply, he extended an index finger and pressed the buzzer. He listened intently to the repetitive thud of the music from within. When it suddenly grew louder, Sherlock knew an internal door had been opened. He counted backwards from four and reached zero just as the door opened before him.

"Sherlock, buddy, come in!"

The man Sherlock recognised as Violet's co-star in the play he'd seen half a dozen times last year beckoned the detective inside with a broad, welcoming grin. Sherlock didn't know how the actor had recognised him though. They'd never been introduced before.

"Spence," Violet's flatmate said, offering Sherlock his hand after closing the door on the rainy street.

The detective closed his hand around Spencer Munro's and shook the actor's hand briefly. He hoped he wasn't going to be introduced to the entire dinner party crowd. The rise and fall of excited voices and music coming from the next room were enough to make Sherlock's stomach churn.

"She's upstairs," Spencer informed Sherlock, gesturing upwards. "Bit tired, poor babe. She's not in a partying mood, but she'll be rapt to see you. Go on up."

Spencer left Sherlock in the stairwell, and Sherlock emitted a sigh of relief out of not having to meet any more people and for Spencer's encouraging words in regard to Violet's mood.

He'd just ascended half a dozen steps when the door to the living area below him opened again.

An intoxicated female voice floated upwards. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked down to find a waifish, very drunk brunette gazing up at him through bleary eyes.

"Alice," she said, stretching out her hand in greeting.

Sherlock plastered a pleasant, affable expression to his face, and descended to the ground floor once more.

He took Alice's hand as she said in mock admonishment, "We would've met last year—"

"—except I had taken ill," Sherlock finished, his expression sincere and full of remorse, "and unfortunately I didn't get to see you perform."

He almost had a meltdown about the prospect of watching Alice's play, he recalled, and he and Violet had opted to have sex in a disused portion of the London Underground instead—facts her friend Alice didn't need to know, however it had made for a much more pleasant evening out.

"I..." Alice stammered, clearly taken aback at being charmed by her flatmate's dashing boyfriend. "Well, I've moved on since then, so you didn't miss much."

"So you have," Sherlock drawled, his eyes glistening in admiration. "I hear you're quite the successful actress."

 _She plays the same part over and over,_ Violet's best friend Mandi had confided in Sherlock, during two hours of his life that he never thought he'd get back. _She's either a skanky girlfriend, rebellious teen, or skanky, rebellious teen girlfriend._ Mandi had laughed, then proceeded to tell Sherlock all about the bitchy things Alice had said about Violet behind her back.

While Sherlock had little time for Violet's redheaded BFF, he did find that Mandi held a genuine affection for his girlfriend, whereas he could tell at a glance that Alice was jealous, manipulative, and duplicitous.

Best keep this one close, he had thought.

Alice held herself a little taller at Sherlock's compliment.

"Well," she said, trying on a dignified air, but struggling through the haze of her intoxication. "I've not been out of work, unlike some, so yes, quite the success."

Sherlock smiled broadly, then said, "Well I'm glad to have finally met you, Alice. I should..." He backed away, and glanced upward, indicating his escape route.

"Oh, she's in a mood," Alice remarked, her expression darkening. "You'll have much more fun down here with us."

"I should at least go up and say hello."

"Yes, and when you're done with Her Royal Snotty-Nose, come back down and have a laugh with us, yeah?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied, gifting Alice with one more Prince Charming smile.

He continued upwards, his smile instantly vanishing as Alice drifted away.

 _She'll be rapt to see you_ , or _she's in a mood_. Which of Violet's flatmates should he believe? His money (and hopes) were on Spencer's assessment.

Sherlock climbed the two flights to Violet's floor and gave a tentative three knocks on her door.

"What?" she called, in a tone that told Sherlock she assumed the caller was one of her flatmates.

He turned the handle and pushed lightly on the door. He eased it open until he could duck his head inside.

"May I come in?"

Those first few seconds were crucial for determining Violet's frame of mind. She had been sitting up in bed, her iPad propped up on her lap. Her bedroom was illuminated by her bedside lamp. Violet's eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock, and she gasped. Her eyes began to moisten but she gave Sherlock an imperceptible nod, permitting him to enter.

So far, so good, he thought. Emotional, but not angry.

The detective stepped inside the tiny bedroom. Sherlock noted that the door swung open freely, unhindered by Violet's usual piles of clothing. The floorboards were actually visible, and Violet's dresser and bedside tables were free from clutter.

"You've.. ah..." Sherlock gave a small cough as he looked around, "...tidied up... a bit."

Sherlock shrugged out of his damp coat and laid it carefully across a chair.

"I thought you were coming around for dinner and that you might stay over," Violet replied evenly, "so I worked on it this afternoon."

"Oh. Right." One strike against him, then.

"So... I..." Sherlock cleared his throat as he approached the bed. He took the liberty of taking a seat on the edge, by Violet's legs. "I thought I'd come over to apologise to you in person..." Violet's eyes narrowed in response, but Sherlock remained undeterred. "Ah... to apologise for not listening to you. Had I listened, I would have politely declined your invitation to dinner."

"You would've declined?" Violet repeated, her expression unchanging, and her mood therefore unreadable in Sherlock's eyes.

This could go either way, he thought.

"Well, you know me," he began, quirking what he thought was a cute, sheepish grin.

When her brow began to furrow, Sherlock's heart-rate increased, and his stomach dropped a quarter of an inch. _No, no, not that way... Don't frown!_

"I just thought you'd make a bit of an effort," Violet began, "after everything we've been through."

"A bit of an effort?" Now it was the detective's turn to scowl. He gestured toward Violet's door and to the stairs beyond, and said, "I just spent time chatting to your flatmates. I didn't dismiss them as the boring, empty-headed idiots that they actually are. I stopped and had a _conversation._ "

When Violet's eyebrows shot up, Sherlock knew there was something wrong with one of his statements.

"Well, maybe not Spence. He was actually accommodating," he quickly added. "But I even complimented Alice on her acting skills. And you know that's no mean feat."

At this, Sherlock was relieved to see Violet brighten, and it further reassured him when she began to chuckle. She reached for his hand and Sherlock interlocked her fingers with his. He'd narrowly missed the precipice. This was him holding on.

"I accept your apology," she said. "I may even let you stay over."

Sherlock was happy with her acceptance. Her invitation, not so much.

"Umm... good," he said. And now to weasel out of staying over. "But... I... ah... thought you might like to come back home with me. Tonight."

Furrowed brow again. Could he do no right?

"But we're here, now," Violet said. "And I'm already in pyjamas."

"Just throw on your trackpants, and an old hoody. You know, dress how you did when you stalked me to the pier that time."

"Why can't you stay here?"

"Violet."

She had that look in her eye, and her hands were wandering where they shouldn't. Sherlock was powerless and she knew it. He should've switched off the minute he walked into her room, but there were ugly consequences if he ignored the entire package that was Violet Hunter.

Approximately twenty minutes later, Sherlock was standing near the kerb about a block away from the door to Violet's flat, keeping an eye out for a cab. He was just over five millilitres of ejaculate lighter, thanks to Violet's encouraging words and saucy deeds. To compensate, he was now weighed down with the burden of his promises to Violet, in exchange for her getting dressed and leaving her flat just before midnight, to join him at his.

 _Run me a bath in the morning,_ she had demanded before she'd agreed to spend the night at Baker Street, _And cook me dinner in the evening. What happens in between is up to you._

-oOo-


	9. Let's Have Dinner

**Chapter 8 –** **Let's Have Dinner**

What happened in between, as Violet found out, was a whole lot of time spent catching up with Mrs Hudson in the landlady's kitchen, while Sherlock Holmes left to find a Tesco Metro store to shop for ingredients in his bid to prepare a meal, from start to finish, for his girlfriend.

In the late afternoon, he announced his return to Violet, so she could accompany him back upstairs to 221B. She made herself comfortable in _his_ armchair, so she could keep an eye on his preparation, cooking and plating, ensuring the detective didn't cheat and merely heat up meals that had been purchased surreptitiously from a local restaurant.

Violet was impressed with Sherlock's attitude during the entirety of the challenge. As she lay soaking in the bath that Sunday morning, Sherlock had studiously researched recipes in Mrs Hudson's cookbooks and on leading celebrity chef websites, in his bid to find that perfect meal.

During his preparation, he never appeared flustered, although the kitchen may have suffered a bit in his bid to coordinate the timing of cooking multiple dishes. Everything came out perfectly, and Violet only left the flat just as Sherlock was plating up, to borrow the napery from Mrs Hudson that the landlady kept aside for special occasions. In return, Sherlock had prepared a third serving of every dish, delivering them to an especially chuffed older woman throughout the evening.

For an entrée, he served goat's cheese fritters with beetroot and apple purée, sour dough bread, and salad with grain mustard dressing. For the main, he spoiled them with a fillet of English beef on top of a rocket purée, and balsamic glazed roasted red onion, accompanied by Roquefort cheese and chunky chips. Dessert was a microwaveable chocolate pudding.

"Well, I didn't have time to cook everything from scratch," he said, unapologetically.

Understandably, Mrs Hudson was in tears by the end of it—happy tears—and she immediately phoned John Watson after Sherlock had poured her a second evening sherry.

Violet had been mesmerised by the entire process, with Sherlock merely shrugging and explaining that cooking was chemistry anyway, and if people couldn't follow recipes when the steps were clearly outlined, then he held no hope for the rest of humanity.

During dinner, Violet told Sherlock all about Stuart Jire, the murder of Lauren Myrtle, and her co-stars' suspicions that Jire was responsible and not the boyfriend Lauren had been dating at the time, and who may have been wrongly charged. When Sherlock asked Violet if she wanted him to get the case re-opened, Violet hesitated, then asked if Sherlock could at least start with finding out if Chenoa Burton was dating Jire. She would then know if her castmate was in any danger, which was probably a more pressing issue.

Sherlock gave Violet a half-smile and said, "Why don't we find out together? I'll show you how to stalk someone properly."

Violet jumped at the chance to get to work with Sherlock on a case.

"But not tonight," she said. "Because I'm really full. I need to lie down."

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa after he helped Violet clean up the kitchen. He was doing his best to appear nonchalant about the outcome of Violet's cooking challenge. He ignored an irate text from his former flatmate— _we lived on baked beans, Mrs Hudson's risotto and Chinese takeaway for two years, when you could cook all along, you selfish prick!—_ and waited for the late evening when Violet would lavish him with her special kind of attention.

"I can't believe I ate all that," Violet remarked after bringing Sherlock a cup of tea.

He made room for her on the sofa, which meant that she sat down at one end, and he got to rest his head in her lap while she carded her hand through his curls.

"I hope I'm not bloated tomorrow morning. I'll never fit into my new dress, which means I'll have to wear some old thing to my interview."

Sherlock let her words wash over him, until he felt compelled to respond.

"What interview?"

Violet was silent for a moment before she replied, "The interview I told you about yesterday. But it doesn't matter. I'm not allowed to be angry with you about choosing not to listen to me."

"O-kay," Sherlock said carefully. But Violet was correct. She wasn't permitted to demonstrate any animosity toward him for yesterday's grievances since he had paid her back in full. "What interview is this?" he asked again. This time he looked up at her and raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated show of interest.

"Brekky TV," she replied.

"Brekky TV?" Sherlock repeated. He knew this show... now what was it again?

"It's a lifestyle program on in the mornings," Violet explained, when Sherlock continued to look perplexed, "which has news, weather, special guests, that sort of thing."

"I've seen it."

"Then you may know that on Mondays they always have someone from _Regency Road_ talking about what's coming up that week—usually the character who has the biggest storyline, in this case Christa. The birth is this week. Haven't you been keeping up?"

"Oh, I'm way ahead in the storyline," Sherlock remarked facetiously. "There's no point watching it anymore."

Violet feigned an unimpressed frown at the reclined detective.

"I've been on Brekky TV once before," she said, "but—"

"I saw that one," Sherlock replied, feeling smug that he knew a lot about Violet's past media commitments. He _had_ been celebrity-stalking her after all. From memory, he cared little for the male host, Dafydd Best, whose eyes kept wandering to Violet's cleavage. "You said three words—'It's been lovely.' Four words if you count the contraction as two."

Violet laughed lightly. "Yes, well, I was on with four of my co-stars, and it was hard getting a word in edge-wise. Plus I was new, so they didn't have much to ask in the way of Christa's storyline."

"So what if they ask about your private life? You know, those hard-hitting questions about abusive boyfriends and a troubled past?"

Violet stopped caressing Sherlock's hair. "What?"

"Because that's what they do, don't they? Although you could always tell them about the ridiculously handsome and intelligent boyfriend you currently have. That will make headlines, surely. _'Violet Hunter snares Catch of the Century.'_ "

"Sherlock, it's a morning programme. Basically it's an advertisement for the show, under the guise of an interview. They're not going to ask me hard-hitting personal questions. And I'm definitely not volunteering any information about you, Catch of the Century or not."

"As long as you don't get offended and swear. Although you could always deck the male host or knee him in the face or something."

But Sherlock had planted a seed of doubt in Violet's mind and she stopped lavishing him with attention while she pondered the kinds of questions she could be asked in future interviews about her past.

Sherlock grabbed her hand, and patted his own head with it, in an effort to kickstart Violet's affections once more.

Violet offered him a benign smile. "I'll look at the camera and give you a wink. How about that? Just for you."

"I'd rather you deck the host. Obnoxious dweeb."

-o-

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson's voice floated up the stairwell just before 7am the next morning. "Don't forget the interview!"

"I know!" he yelled back. "It's on!"

Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway quick smart as Kirsty Willeme finished her banter, spiced with innuendo, with her co-host, Dafydd Best. The well-coiffed, ex-model female host announced, "And up next we talk to the lovely Violet Hunter who plays Christa on our favourite soap, _Regency Road_. Don't go away."

Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hand. There was nothing he could do about this. He was helpless, and he had to let events unfold on the small screen as he stood by and allowed them to happen.

"Oh, she does look lovely," Mrs Hudson commented, taking in the wide studio shot of the hosts chatting to Violet as they broke for the advertisements.

His landlady's words and the image of Violet herself looking relaxed and sitting prettily on a sofa opposite the Brekky TV hosts did nothing for Sherlock's nerves. He stood up and began pacing the room, while Mrs Hudson cleared the coffee mugs from the living room table, humming to herself.

 _What if they ask her about her childhood?_ Sherlock thought, his mind racing. _Her relationships? Oh, just the usual, she would answer. Mum tried to kill me and herself when I was five. She eventually succeeded in committing suicide after she'd been in a mental institution for a few years. My dad is a wanker who never wanted anything to do with me, and my ex-boyfriend associates with a killer who castrates his victims and shoves—_

The ad break finished, so the detective reluctantly sank into his armchair. Mrs Hudson emitted a coo of delight and took her seat in John's old armchair, turning so she could see the screen.

"Welcome back," Dafydd Best began. "Now having emerged on our screen as Christa Barlow, the tempestuous seventeen year old, pregnant daughter of _Regency Road's_ lovable pub owner, Florrie Barlow, we say hello and welcome to the beautiful Violet Hunter."

"Thanks for having me," Violet said, smiling pleasantly at them.

 _Fake smile_ , thought Sherlock. _She hates you both._

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson gasped at Violet's close-up. "She looks so pretty! I'm glad they did her make-up normally."

"Shhh!"

"Our pleasure," Dafydd continued. "Now when Christa burst onto the scene, there was a lot of yelling—"

"Quite a bit," Violet volunteered, adding a phony laugh that Sherlock immediately detected.

"—and a few run-ins with her mother, Florrie, and other _Regency Road_ residents. Let's have a look at those last few months..."

They cut to a compilation of scenes from the soap, showing Christa yelling, crying, having tantrums, and arguing with a variety of other _Regency Road_ residents. Sherlock knew every scene intimately. They cut back to the studio where Violet and the hosts were having a bit of a laugh.

"A lot of yelling there!" commented Kirsty.

"Yes, there is a lot of yelling, and crying. It's been quite a tense three months actually," Violet said.

Kirsty smiled indulgently at Violet, prompting Sherlock to scowl at the female host.

 _She hates you. Stop pretending to be her friend._

"Now, we know all about Christa, but tell us about Violet Hunter. You're nothing alike... at least, I hope not," Kirsty said in between laughs.

Sherlock's insides churned and he widened his eyes in alarm. _They want to know about Violet. The whole package!_

"Obviously there's quite a few differences between us," Violet replied, her composure unwavering.

Sherlock hung on to her every word, perching himself forward on the edge of his chair. She didn't seem like the Violet he knew at all. He originally expected her to lean back on the sofa, kick her heels off and curl her legs underneath. When she didn't do any of those things, he knew she was playing a part.

He shushed Mrs Hudson every so often, but he noticed that Violet managed to skirt around the topic of herself by highlighting Christa Barlow's personality flaws. In spite of this, Sherlock's heart-rate remained quite elevated.

"And she's still so young," Violet was saying. "And I've just turned twenty-five..."

Sherlock immediately stood up, his head spinning.

"What?"

 _Just turned twenty-five? Just? Did I miss her birthday? Because birthdays are quite special to most people aren't they?_ Why didn't he know her age or birthdate? Didn't he catch sight of that data when he rifled through Violet's file? No, he didn't, because at the time, that information was quite irrelevant to him.

"And obviously you're not from Manchester," Dafydd Best stated as Sherlock was working out how to find out when Violet's birthday was, without asking her directly. "Christa's Manc accent is quite thick."

"Shut up about the accent," Sherlock remarked, waving a flippant hand at the telly. "Anybody can do a Northern accent." He settled himself onto the edge of his seat once more.

"No, London-born," Violet replied. "I did some of my early schooling in Birmingham..."

"Boring," the detective remarked.

"Sherlock," admonished Mrs Hudson.

"Shhh!"

"...and I've spent a fair amount of time in Manchester though..."

 _Don't mention Jake Venucci for Christ's sake!_

"...and obviously with Florrie being Mancunian they needed her daughter to be as well."

"Obviously," said the detective.

"So what do we have in store for Christa?" Kirsty asked, steering the conversation around to the show's storyline. "She's just about term now?"

Violet spoke about the upcoming birth scenes, what it was like to wear the fake belly, and backstage jokes and pranks with the prop.

Sherlock breathed a bit easier, but he still shushed Mrs Hudson every time she made a comment. They then cut away to scenes that were going to be aired that week, Christa giving birth, and Sherlock sank into the back of his armchair.

The conversation shifted direction to the identity of the father of Christa's baby, and at every mention of Shaun, Sherlock scoffed.

The show cut away to a compilation of scenes between Christa and Shaun, with the hosts talking over the footage about the possibility of another _Regency Road_ wedding. As Sherlock scanned the scenes from the show one after the other, a realisation occurred to him, as an obvious piece of evidence was laid bare before his eyes.

In a rush of breath, he stood up and grabbed the top of his hair. "No! It's not Shaun!"

"So you keep saying," Mrs Hudson remarked, in a tone that told of her exasperation at hearing Sherlock say the same words during every episode.

"No! But I know who the baby's father is... oh, this is..."

 _This is... controversial._

Sherlock stalked away from the fireplace and spun around just as Dafydd asked Violet, "How about you then. Does Violet Hunter have a special somebody? Someone to share in the nightlife with?"

Sherlock performed a double-take, his eyes drawn back to the telly.

"Sorry, we had to ask!" Kirsty joked.

Violet's expression didn't change at all. She replied pleasantly, "I'm far too busy to have a boyfriend... who'd put up with me?"

"It's probably hard to compete when you're sharing a flat with the likes of Spencer Munro," Kirsty adding, fixing Violet with a sly wink.

Sherlock tutted at the telly, and Mrs Hudson said, "Ooh, he's lovely, that Spencer Munro." Then she turned to the detective and said, "Sorry, love, but he is. Why Violet didn't date him, I'll never know."

"You'll never know?" Sherlock repeated, staring incredulously at Mrs Hudson's profile as she turned back to the telly.

Violet was talking about what a great actor Spencer was, successfully avoiding any further speculation on her dating situation, and her and Spencer's private lives.

"The man's gay," Sherlock muttered darkly.

"What love?"

"Never mind, Mrs Hudson," he said, as his landlady's attention remained fixed on the interview. "You continue believing your ludicrous fantasy," he said, more to himself than Mrs Hudson, "and I'll just count my lucky stars Violet's happy to settle for second best."

Rapidly becoming bored with the interview that had now moved on to how Violet was finding working with such Reggie stalwarts as Meredith Bourkely and Annabeth Minogue, Sherlock retrieved his laptop from the small table beside his chair, and sat down with it in his lap.

He glanced up just as the hosts were thanking Violet, and Violet smiled into the camera. A tiny smile grew on the detective's face as he caught her subtle wink.

"Oh, that was lovely," Mrs Hudson said, rising from her seat as Sherlock clicked off the telly. "We'll have to remember to watch the show this evening, Sherlock."

"I know what happens already, Mrs Hudson. Now..." he murmured as his fingers rapidly danced across the keyboard. "I have a theory about Christa's baby that will bring down the internet."

"What's that, love?"

But Sherlock was already typing, _Twitter. com._

-oOo-


	10. Upgrade Her Surveillance Status

**A/N:**

 _This site doesn't allow the use of the at-symbol in stories, so I have used_ _ **a)**_ _in its place for Twitter names._

 **.**

 **Chapter 9 –** **Upgrade Her Surveillance Status**

" _a)TheVioletHunter_ ," Sherlock said, pointing to his screen. "There. How can that not be you?"

Violet ran her eyes over the Twitter profile screen for _TheVioletHunter_ ( _The Official Account of Violet Hunter. 'I wanna be an actor when I grow up!'_ ) her brow furrowing at the accompanying photo of a hand holding a book, as the slightly out-of-focus subject, presumably the actress herself, lay reclined on a sofa, her face obscured by her reading material.

"And you're reading that ridiculous book you take with you everywhere. Or not ridiculous," Sherlock hastened to add, quickly shooting a glance at his girlfriend.

 _Canning Town,_ Violet read of the cover she knew only too well.

"But... I don't have a Twitter account," she said slowly to Sherlock again, small creases appearing in her brow that probably came with the knowledge that her identity had somehow been stolen.

Sherlock leant back into the sofa, folding his arms in front of him and running the knuckle of his forefinger across his bottom lip. Violet pivoted his computer toward her and began scrolling through the latest tweets from _a)TheVioletHunter_.

Sherlock could see her mood rapidly darkening as the tweets scrolled by.

He was familiar with this Twitter account, it appearing in his 'Violet Hunter' search results earlier in the year, just after Violet had won the role of Christa on _Regency Road._ He had thought that Violet had decided to open up a semi-public profile because of the TV soap, tweeting sporadically about inane aspects of her life, such as:

—having coffee with friends:

 _lady nearby is feeding scraps to her dog. Cute! #wantmyownpuppy_

—watching her flatmates appear on telly:

 _watching the talented a)AliceInAngleland on #SussexSons_

—and recovering from a night out, apparently:

 _I drink too much #alco-in-training_

The last tweet had concerned Sherlock just a little, because it was written the day after the attack by Grice Johnson.

All in all, the account was quite innocuous, and irrelevant in the scheme of things. However, Sherlock had kept a weather eye on it.

Violet tapped her fingers on the keyboard, seemingly unable to decide whether to scroll forward or backward.

"Who's doing this?" she said.

"Wait, wait!" Sherlock said, sitting up. "Scroll back up."

He quickly scanned the screen as Violet navigated to the most recent tweets.

"There," the detective said, pointing to the top. "The last few tweets. It's Alice."

"What?"

"See here," Sherlock said.

Violet read aloud the contents of the tweet Sherlock had pointed to.

 _Watch a)AliceInAngleland on #ScarboroughUnfair tonight! #qualityTV_

"Yes," said Sherlock in repose. "Definitely Alice. Don't you see?" He leant forward, his eyes sparkling with the usual intensity he reserved when his synapses all fired at once. "You were with me and Grice Johnson on Thursday night. I didn't notice what time you tweeted because of all the drama. I had switched my phone to silent during our little visit."

Violet sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes at the screen.

"And here," Sherlock added.

Violet silently read the tweet Sherlock had indicated.

 _Piking out again. Going to bed early. #lamestpartyguestever._

"That was Saturday night," the detective explained. "That's why I decided to visit you, because I thought you had retired from the dinner party. It could only be from someone who was there that night—Alice."

"Do you follow me on Twitter?"

"I... don't have an account," Sherlock replied, smiling ruefully. "I have this RSS feed app thing. It sends me notifications whenever you... _your account_... tweets, which is only once or twice per week, if that. Never really anything... meaningful." When Violet continued to scrutinise her boyfriend, Sherlock added, "And you haven't tweeted anything about me."

Her expression softened and she leant into him. "Because I'm too busy snogging you to tweet about it." Violet planted a quick kiss on Sherlock's cheek before her face hardened and she suddenly stood up.

"I have to go," she said.

"What? Where?"

"Home."

Violet grabbed at her bag that lay on the coffee table in front of them, and made moves toward the door.

"Wait," Sherlock said, also rising from the sofa. Violet was doing that flicking of her fingernail thing, between her thumb and her ring finger, a curious gesture he observed just before she got into character and beat the crap out of the rapist-bartender. "You can't go off all angry like this."

"I'm not that angry," Violet replied. "But I'm going to get angrier the more I think about it, and I'll be in a right mood by the time I get to Islington and Alice in Fucking Angleland."

"Exactly. So you should... ah... think... first. A bit."

"Think of what?"

Violet's challenging gaze left the detective slightly flustered. However, he wasn't totally incapable of coming up with a better plan than planting a right hook on a flatmate.

"Hack the account," he said. "And claim ownership."

"What? How? You can't just say, 'Hack the account,' and then do it. That requires some kind of... geeky... nerdy... skillset."

A tiny smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth. With his voice pitched low, he said, "Have you just met me?"

-o-

They managed to gain access to Violet's bogus Twitter account using a password Violet had guessed. After concluding that Alice wouldn't use a word or phrase that was associated with herself, Sherlock prompted Violet to think of a password that Alice would've generated that had to do with Violet—and in a derogatory sense, Sherlock had added, much to Violet's surprise. Sherlock held the comments that Violet's BFF, Mandi, had made about Alice firmly in his mind.

Violet had scowled and immediately offered, "Black Daisy."

She explained to Sherlock the meaning behind the moniker, of the late Daisy Firmington, the deceased American actress, who some people had said that Violet held a passing resemblance to, especially when Violet herself had been blonde. The 'black' prefix had come about as a result of her dyed hair, and had been created by the delightful Alice.

With 'blackdaisy' a success, Sherlock set about changing the password to both the Twitter account and its associated email account. And of course Alice had used the same password for both.

"We should delete everything," Violet suggested. "Or remove the entire account."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Or delete the tweets and keep the account, as a signal to Alice that she can be hacked at any time and you've taken possession of something that was rightfully yours."

Violet looked on as Sherlock's nimble fingers and swift mind reset the Twitter account back to basics, all the way to the default egg in place of her own profile picture. Obviously Alice had stealthily photographed Violet one lazy weekend afternoon, as Violet stretched on the sofa reading her favourite novel. It could've been taken at any time during the last two months.

Violet decided that she would ask the studio to tweet on her behalf that the account _a)TheVioletHunter_ did not belong to her, that it would now remain inactive, and to apologise to her followers (in excess of 80K of them) that she does not have, and will not have, a Twitter account. Violet resisted the temptation to tweet something scathing about Alice.

"Okay, I'm going now," Violet said, grabbing her bag once more.

"Wait!" Sherlock exclaimed, also rising from the sofa. "You can't go yet. Pummelling Alice can wait. I was in the middle of telling you something when we were sidetracked by your phoney account."

Violet exhaled slowly, and dropped her bag back down to the coffee table. Sherlock knew she wasn't interested in discussing the soap's storyline with him, and she hadn't been impressed when he had practically leapt upon her once she'd entered his flat after returning from work.

Well he _had_ been waiting _all day_ for her return. Violet had left for the studio straight after her interview on Brekky TV that morning, and had sent Sherlock a text practically yelling at him:

 _Did you see me!_

Was it even a question?

Sherlock had replied with a simple _Yes_. And had quickly added, _And I need to discuss something with you._

Of course Violet had probably gone into paranoid-mode and she had immediately replied:

 _When I answered the question about having a boyfriend, I didn't actually deny it. Love you! x_

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at his phone and assured Violet that he knew that and he didn't want to discuss anything to do with her interview.

Sherlock had discovered, by trawling through social media for the better part of the morning, that _nobody else_ in the entire _Regency Road_ fandom had correctly identified the father of Christa Barlow's baby. _Nobody._

So before he put everyone out of their collective misery ( _because surely everyone hates not knowing things),_ Sherlock decided to double-check his facts with Violet first. He told her that perhaps Mrs Hudson could tweet the information on his behalf—he didn't necessarily need to take credit for such things—and _yes, Mrs Hudson is on Twitter_ , he'd informed Violet. _Look, she even follows you._

—giving rise to the issue that Violet didn't actually have an account on Twitter.

"Okay," Violet said. "But before you say anything, let me state that I don't know who the father of Christa's baby is."

"How can you not know? You're Christa Barlow."

"Yes, but we don't know what's going to be in the script until it's handed to us. At the moment, I'm only working on the scenes leading up to Christa's departure. So even I don't know under what circumstances she leaves."

Sherlock's shoulders drooped. How could he confirm his deduction?

"But I need to know if I'm correct. Surely you must have some idea?"

Violet raised her hands in protest. "No, I don't." As a sly smile spread across her face, she said, "And don't tell me anything!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing Violet carefully. Stalking closer, he said, "But you've been living and breathing the part all this time. All those nuances—the sly looks… _You_ made them. How can you not be aware what's going on, when I've just witnessed scene after scene showing damning evidence of a past sexual relationship between the pair of you."

Violet chuckled out an incredulous, "What?"

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and began a slow circuit around his girlfriend.

"We all know that Christa used to live in the same town as Shaun and his family."

"Yes." Violet's eyes glistened with interest. She was obviously enjoying Sherlock's theatrics.

"And that he was as surprised as her mother when Christa followed them to Regency Road."

"So?"

"Shaun, _and his family."_

Sherlock stopped his circuitous route and turned to continue in the other direction. Violet looked on in amusement.

"Of course he was always there, exchanging looks, being the voice of reason, when all along—"

"Sherlock, who are you talking about, if not Shaun?"

"Not Shaun," Sherlock repeated, looking directly into Violet's eyes with a piercing, accusatory gaze. "Shaun's _father_."

Violet gaped, her eyes widening at the notion. She began laughing, covering her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking in time. When she took her hand away, she shook her head slowly as if in disbelief. "No… really?"

"Yes. Really. You can see it too, can't you?"

Sherlock waited patiently, observing with a practised eye the look of someone slowly piecing together snippets of evidence until the jigsaw puzzle was complete. For tiny little minds, it was a long wait.

Violet was staring at the floor, but Sherlock knew that in her mind's eye she was replaying every scene she had acted in where Shaun's father was also present. She would be reviewing the dialogue, but more importantly, the direction, the blocking—where to look, when to meet each other's eyes, give knowing glances, and stand in close proximity. What she may not be familiar with, was how those scenes were edited if she hadn't watched the show herself.

"Oh God, Sherlock, you're right! You're so right!"

Violet drifted closer to Sherlock. A smile of satisfaction lurked below the surface of the detective's outwardly calm demeanour.

"You clever man," she murmured, before rising on her toes and pressing a kiss to his lips. She steadied herself with the flat of her palm brought to rest lightly against his chest. "But I have to go," she whispered upon drawing back. "I'll deal with your cleverness later."

Violet had already retrieved her bag once more before Sherlock stirred out of his self-satisfactory bubble of smugness. Wasn't he going to reap the benefits of his cleverness just yet?

"Wait. Where…?"

"I've got to go confront Alice, remember?"

Violet's bright expression was even more cause for alarm than her leaving angry earlier, Sherlock thought. She almost seemed… psychotic.

"And don't tell anyone about your theory. It's so good, it needs to be revealed when the episode airs. Promise me?"

Sherlock reluctantly nodded. "As long as you know that I worked it out first," he replied sullenly.

Violet's broad grin told him of her admiration. She narrowed the gap between them once more. Her goodbye kiss eliminated any doubt in Sherlock's mind that she would definitely deal with his cleverness later.

She took off down the stairs, chuckling to herself. Whether it was in reflection for Sherlock's _Regency Road_ bombshell, or her impending confrontation with her identity-thieving flatmate, Sherlock shuddered to think.

He spun around, examining his living space, and raking a hand through his curls to reset his mind.

A satisfactory day's work. Or was it? Sherlock realised he hadn't devoted any time to progressing on the Ronald Adair case since mid-week last. He knew he couldn't make any more progress on it until he could see the facts from another angle. Perhaps he needed to take a trip to Manchester, where John Douglas had been murdered in exactly the same way.

Manchester though. While that would put the Consulting Detective in the same city as Sebastian Moran, it was also where Jake Venucci resided. Violet wouldn't be happy about that.

-o-

Sherlock reached inside his jacket pocket for his packet of cigarettes. _Waiting_ had him doing this. _Waiting, watching, lurking. Surveillance._ And his fingers had reflexively reached for and lit a cigarette. The smoke burned through his lungs, and the realisation that he shouldn't be doing this hit him at the same time as his exhaled smoke hit the olfactory system of the woman who paced in the shadows a little way away from him.

"Sherlock!"

"Whoops. My apologies. Old habits."

Sherlock took one last drag, then dropped the barely-smoked cigarette to the ground. He crushed it out with his shoe and sighed deeply at the missed opportunity for a nicotine fix.

Violet shifted impatiently in front of him.

"My feet are hurting. How much longer?"

"Violet, we've only been here half an hour."

Sherlock could feel impatience vibrating through Violet's whole body as she leaned back heavily against him.

Her voice floated through the darkness once more. "I can hear somebody coming."

"Nobody's coming," Sherlock drawled disinterestedly. "And don't think for one second that I can't see through your lie as a ploy for us to start snogging again."

"Snogging's more interesting than staring at an apartment building."

"I'm trying to teach you surveillance," Sherlock admonished her. "How to be a good detective."

"I'd rather be a naughty detective," she said, chuckling.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and longed for his cigarette back. He'd never had this much trouble with John Watson. Thank God.

"Summarise what we know so far," he said, rubbing Violet's arms encouragingly as she stood in front of him.

Violet looked up at the darkened building.

"Well, we followed Chenoa from the studio to a Simply Food, where she bought a bottle of wine and an assortment of nibbles."

"Good. And what can we deduce from the items she purchased?"

"Wine and cheese," Violet replied, sighing in satisfaction as Sherlock's arms stole around her. "Sounds like a lovely evening in."

"But what was _missing_ from her purchases?"

Sherlock could feel Violet tensing. Obviously it was too difficult a question. He decided to prompt her.

"She was at the studio up until dinner time. Did she eat there?"

"No."

"So, what was missing from her purchases at the shops?"

Sherlock could almost hear Violet's mind ticking over. It was excruciating to witness.

"Dinner?" she asked eventually, holding on to Sherlock's arms to keep them in place around her.

"And that means...?"

"She's having wine and cheese for dinner. Good for her."

Sherlock chuckled into Violet's ear, drawing her in closer. On second thoughts, this was a more comfortable way to conduct surveillance. He pressed himself up against Violet's back.

"Stop projecting your culinary fantasies onto your co-star," he said. "Now what would she usually have for dinner?"

"I don't know. Maybe she already has the ingredients to make something in her flat."

"Using what you know of her, does she seem the type to cook something from scratch? Or would she buy those pre-made salads like you do?"

Violet was thoughtful for a moment, before she remarked, "Have you got an erection?"

Sherlock exhaled deeply, then he released his hold on Violet as she wriggled around to face him.

"Vi— _ugh_ —let!" he cried out in alarm as his girlfriend ran a hand over his crotch.

"Oh, you don't," she said, her voice full of disappointment as she withdrew her hand.

"No, I don't," he said, his chest heaving at the sudden invasion. "Unlike you, I can compartmentalise. Now focus." However, Sherlock knew he wasn't so compartmentalised at the moment, otherwise he wouldn't have reacted as he did.

Violet turned her back on Sherlock once more, and the detective loosely embraced her this time, lest she get the wrong idea. Or the right idea, just at the wrong time, and in the wrong place.

"She doesn't cook," Violet replied. "I know that. So she's taking wine and cheese to somebody else's place who will probably cook dinner for her. So why hasn't she left yet?"

"You're assuming she needs to leave the flat in order to meet someone with whom she can share her wine and cheese."

"But you're thinking something else, because you're so much more cleverer than me."

"I merely observe."

Silence enveloped the couple once more, and Sherlock opted to keep quiet to let Violet think on her own for a while. This was a rather pleasant way to spend an evening—working on a case, of sorts, having Violet witness and comment on his brilliance, and getting to cuddle her at the same time.

"Okay, what did you observe that I didn't? I obviously suck at this."

"When Chenoa returned to her flat, how was she walking?"

Sherlock could feel Violet emitting vapours from her nostrils. Clearly she didn't have the patience for this kind of work. And his prompting probably wasn't helping either.

"On two legs with one fucking foot in front of the other."

"Violet," Sherlock said, exuding an air of patience he didn't know he possessed. "Was she in a hurry? Somebody who had dinner plans would hasten home, wouldn't they, to get changed or whatever, in order to dash out again. Your friend was walking with the luxury and air of someone who was glad to reach her final destination. And there was one other thing she did."

"She...she turned out the porch light."

"Yes. She had no intention of going out again. And she wasn't expecting a visitor after arriving home. Her dinner companion was already here waiting for her."

It took a moment for Violet to realise the meaning of that deduction.

"So we've been waiting here for nothing? Stuart Jire's already inside?"

"We don't know if it's Jire."

In the semi-darkness, Violet turned around to face Sherlock. She asked, "So how can we find out?"

"We can stay here all night, or..."

"Or what?"

"Or you could ring her like I suggested before we left Baker Street this evening."

Violet brooded for a moment, fiddling with Sherlock's shirt buttons as she thought through their options.

"How about rock, scissors, paper?"

"Sorry, what?"

Violet had raised her head to the detective-genius, her eyes bright with excitement.

"If I win, we'll go home, if you win, we'll stay, and if it's a draw, then I'll ring her."

Sherlock's brow knitted together in direct relation to the level of idiocy being displayed in front of him.

"You know my thoughts on the lack of logic surrounding that game, Violet. Firstly, you've limited our choices to us staying here or you ringing Chenoa. And the two are not even mutually exclusive. And secondly, you're leaving it up to chance to make a decision that should be based on logic and reason."

"Wait a minute... why wouldn't I win?"

"Because I would choose scissors, in the unlikely event that I would even play this stupid, pointless game. And as I've stated before, scissors beat everything, so unless you also choose scissors, either I'll win or it will be a draw."

"Sherlock—"

"Scissors cut paper, and scissors are enhanced by rock. We've been through this. Paper loses every time—"

"Paper wraps rock—"

"If you live in an idiot's universe."

The sound of footsteps and laughter from along the street prompted the beginnings of Violet's scowl to turn into a triumphant smile. Sherlock ducked his head. A moment's reprieve from a stupid conversation. He captured Violet's mouth with his. It was an old cover but still a good one: couple snogging to mask their identity as a surveillance team, should they encounter any passersby.

The chatty group continued on along the street without the amorous couple being spotted. Sherlock took this opportunity to gain the upper hand with Violet and reset the playing field. She was always doing small things to disarm him and upset his neat little view of the world.

Sherlock brought a hand up to the nape of Violet's neck, catching his fingers in her hair while his tongue continued to tantalise and arouse her. He crushed his body against hers, before lightly stealing a hand around to brush against the side of her breast. When he felt her hum of satisfaction against his mouth, he quickly withdrew, allowing the cold air to snap between them.

Sherlock carefully cupped Violet's face between his hands.

"Ring her. Ring her now, so we can decide what to do next."

Violet blinked slowly, dazed, confused and definitely not sated.

"What?"

"Ring Chenoa. Find out if she's having an affair with Jire. It's not that difficult."

Violet huffed a sigh as Sherlock took a step back from her, allowing her some room to find her phone. He needed to adjust himself anyway. Took it a bit too far. For both of them.

"Hi, Chenoa? It's Violet."

Sherlock gave Violet a reassuring smile of support. Violet held her phone out and pressed the Speaker button.

"Hey, beautiful. What's up?"

Sherlock noted the sleepy cadence to Chenoa's voice.

"I didn't get to talk to you this afternoon," Violet began, "before I left, so..."

"Yeah." Chenoa's laugh floated out through the phone's speaker. "Did you see me practising on crutches? _Such_ a laugh."

"Missed it, sorry. Ah, Chenoa..." Violet frowned as Sherlock gestured with a hand wave, impatiently signaling to his girlfriend to get a hurry along. "I was just wondering if you were seeing anyone..."

" _Seeing_ anyone," Chenoa repeated, with a giggle.

Sherlock could tell that the young woman was repeating the words for the benefit of a third party. He raised his eyebrows at Violet, again willing her to get to the point.

"It's just that there's a rumour going around the studio..."

"A _ru-mour?"_

She was doing it again, Sherlock noticed, slowly repeating each word so that it sensuously rolled of her tongue. He hardened his expression, and stared down at Violet.

Violet sighed heavily, then rolled her eyes at Sherlock. Clearly she heard it too.

"Look, Chenoa. People are saying that you're fucking Stuart Jire."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

There was silence at the other end, and then Chenoa began to laugh. Finally she said, "You can put all those _delicious_ rumours to bed, beautiful. Well...I know _I_ will." Before she ended the call, there was another chuckle, a deep-throated one, from somewhere in her vicinity.

The phone went dead, and Sherlock's own distaste was reflected on Violet's face.

"Ew," she said, dropping her phone into her pocket.

"Clearly they've just finished having sex."

"Oh God, Sherlock. Don't say that!"

"So much for wine and cheese."

-oOo-


	11. Oh, You're Angry With Me

**Chapter 10 – Oh, You're Angry With Me**

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to Violet while he paid for her pre-made salad at the self-service checkout. She was pretending to be interested in the gift chocolates, but he saw her eyes drift upwards toward the shelves of liquor. He didn't know why that concerned him so much, but he wished Violet had waited outside in the street for him. He only came in to pay because she hadn't brought along her purse to their surveillance of Chenoa Burton.

Violet had picked up the salad she wanted, then placed it down again, so Sherlock knew which one to buy. With her hoody pulled up over her head, and her intention not to purchase anything, she came off looking like a dodgy shoplifter, and definitely not like a TV soap star. Although the two weren't exactly mutually exclusive, Sherlock thought in hindsight.

Out on the street, Sherlock signaled for a cab. They employed the routine they had thought up on the night of Saturday's dinner party, for getting them both discreetly back to Baker Street using the same cab. When the taxi pulled up, Sherlock opened the door for himself, but left a wide enough gap for some rude female to push her way in before him. Still, no reason why they couldn't share a cab, so he had climbed in after her.

This evening, Violet was lost in her own thoughts, and she stared out of the cab window at London's night life, as if they were strangers anyway.

"Are you sure you wanted this one?" Sherlock asked, holding out the salad. "Looks like it's got broken bits of noodles in it."

"It's an Asian salad," Violet replied, her attention remaining firmly fixed on the view outside the cab.

Sherlock's insides flip-flopped. He wanted to reach for her but she had been putting some distance between them ever since the week began, and incident after incident had occurred to put Violet in this dark place that she kept defaulting to whenever Sherlock couldn't distract her with something else. The surveillance of her co-star had been the biggest distraction this week, but now its results only added to Violet's growing list of things to be pissed off about.

The week began with the bogus Twitter account, and a confrontation with Alice, resulting in Alice kicking Violet out of the flat they shared with Spencer in Crouch End. While Violet and Alice were at their respective jobs on Tuesday, Sherlock Holmes—who obviously had nothing better to do, being a well-respected, brilliant but _self-employed_ detective-genius—had the unenviable task of hiring a moving van, and getting all of Violet's possessions packed up, and transported to her _dad's flat_ at the Brassworks. Not _Baker Street._

"Don't get upset that I'm not moving in with you, Sherlock. We've already discussed this, and this week, of all weeks, I don't need another argument."

Cue Tuesday afternoon's disappointment: Violet's agent informed her that she didn't get a call back for the mini-series _Catherine Hilderness,_ in which she had been put up for the role of the younger version of the titular character. Violet had said to Sherlock that it was _fine_ , and clearly she was all wrong for the part, and anyway, Sir Henry Masters, as both Executive Producer and leading male, had never made a secret of his dislike of young soap actors, and all the hype that went with them, especially ones who hadn't been through drama school. And obviously, Violet looked nothing like a young Ursula Aldman, the award-winning actress rumoured to have snared the main role as Catherine in her mature years.

Sherlock had bit his tongue at the mention of the names Sir Henry Masters, Ursula Aldman and even Damian Oakeshott, apparently a renowned and respected director, who had attended Violet's audition. Violet was _bloody lucky_ Sherlock was even listening to her. Every name was now stored permanently in his Mind Palace, taking up precious storage space. But what did she care. At least she was _fine_ , and her boyfriend was being _very supportive_ by not saying a word against this ridiculous industry in which she strived to exist.

So they had arrived at Wednesday evening, bristling with unspoken words and arguments Sherlock longed to have, even just to clear the air. With Violet venting about how smug and mysterious Chenoa had been acting of late, about her unnamed new lover, Sherlock had suggested this evening's surveillance, reminding Violet of his promise to teach her how to stalk someone properly.

But now she was all sullen again as a result of finding out that her co-star was more than likely having an affair with one of _Regency Road_ 's Executive Producers—and more alarmingly, a possible murderer—and she was ignoring Sherlock as they took a cab back to Baker Street.

 _Baker Street_. Now that was another sore point. Violet had stayed at the Brassworks on Monday and Tuesday nights, since she had moved out of Crouch End, and Sherlock had declined invitations to stay over both nights.

"There's nobody else there," Violet had argued. "Dad's practically living in Bristol now, for work, and I don't have any annoying flatmates."

"But you still only have a single bed."

"So we can cuddle."

"And I like to roll away from you… on occasion."

And then there was the silence that followed every such 'discussion.'

Sherlock studied Violet as she continued looking away from him. He could reach out and hold her hand, giving her a reassuring smile that told her of his unwavering support for all of her stupid decisions, or he could prod and poke her while she was in a vulnerable state until she broke down and told him things he wouldn't normally get out of her.

Like anecdotes about Jacob Venucci.

Sherlock had banished both his Mind Palace alter-egos long ago—the ones that had persisted on taking the forms of his brother and his former flatmate, but he still found himself struggling to motivate himself out of reasons of logic or reasons of love.

Sherlock reached out and clasped Violet's hand. She turned her head and met his warm, affectionate, _supportive boyfriend_ gaze.

"I'm thinking of going to Manchester," he said.

-o-

Violet had to clear the air. The weekend was looming and she and Sherlock were not talking. She hated that he'd left for the North on Thursday after they'd exchanged heated words on Wednesday night, resulting in Violet storming out of Baker Street. She knew she'd been a pain in the arse since the start of the week, and as Sherlock had quite rightly pointed out, none of it had been his fault, yet he bore the brunt of her foul mood.

Her telltale response of "fine" on Wednesday night was the last straw for Sherlock. He had become sullen himself in the cab at her reaction, or lack of reaction, to his suggestion that he travel to Manchester to investigate the cold case of John Douglas's murder.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the cab journey back to Baker Street. On reaching Sherlock's flat, Violet had asked Sherlock if he wanted any of the salad, and he'd replied, "No, I'll be fine for a bit."

This had prompted Violet to snap at his lack of care for his health, and the issue over whether there was even enough salad to share between the two of them escalated into a general argument about who took whom for granted. Sherlock then highlighted all of the things he'd done for Violet that week, which included, but was not limited to, making small-talk with moronic flatmates, hacking a Twitter account for her, co-ordinating removalists—" _and folding all of your clothes that had been hastily shoved into your wardrobe, while loose tampons spilled out from their boxes. Did you know they'd multiplied in the back of your wardrobe?"_ — stalking a soap star, and having to put up with her dad's neighbour threatening to call the police on him for breaking into the Brassworks, even though Sherlock now possessed an access card, courtesy of Violet's dad.

"And how many actual cases have I worked on in the past week? Hmm? Just the one, on Saturday, and even then I incurred your wrath over it. I'm a Consulting Detective for Christ's sake. Not Violet Hunter's personal assistant."

And so Violet had left Baker Street that night, and Sherlock had departed London for Manchester the very next morning.

Violet spent all day Thursday at the studio dwelling on and replaying her argument with Sherlock in her head. With every passing minute, her heart would stutter and stall, and she knew she was at fault. She rang him as soon as she left her dressing room and was out of the studio lot, to ask him if she could come over and apologise. Naturally, she was stunned to learn that he wasn't in London.

"Why are you in Manchester?" she'd asked. "We didn't discuss it... we didn't even agree that you could go."

"And why would we? I don't need your permission to work on a case, Violet."

"But Jake—"

"—is clearly the centre of your fucking universe, but he hardly rates as anything in mine."

She'd hung up on him after his comment, then immediately regretted it—both the hanging up and the mentioning of Jake. She carried that regret like a dull period pain all the next day. So Sherlock had still been angry with her, so much so that he had cursed. The _centre of her universe_? Was it so wrong that she had been concerned about Sherlock and Jake existing in the same city? Jake had been to London quite a few times now, but she hadn't feared for Sherlock then. There was, however, something unsettling about Sherlock visiting Manchester.

Was it needy that she wanted to call him again? Why didn't he phone her? What if he'd decided he didn't want this relationship anymore? That his cases were more important than his high-maintenance girlfriend? What if this was Poland all over again, and he didn't return for three weeks? Would he be cold to her again?

Their current argument had lasted two days now, and anxiety and panic had crept into her heart and had made themselves at home.

Violet secretly hoped that Sherlock would be back in London now. She curled her legs underneath her as she sat on her dad's sofa and dialled his number.

 _Please answer. Don't let it go to Messages._

"Hello."

His voice was pitched low, but it exuded warmth, tenderness, affection.

Love.

A tiny bubble of joy swelled inside her heart.

"I'm sorry." Her voice felt thin and wispy. _Grow some, Violet!_ "It's just that I worry about you unnecessarily. I've got no right to tell you where you can and can't go, and you know I respect your work enormously—"

"Violet."

"But I've just got so much on my mind and I can't compartmentalise like you can. I know that's not a good enough excuse for treating you—"

"Violet, it's fine."

Sherlock's reassuring tone soothed and comforted directly into her ear through the phone's speaker. Violet closed her eyes briefly and exhaled slowly when she felt a pressure building up behind her tear ducts. She'd been worrying for nothing. Of course he still loved her. _You idiot, Vi!_

"Perhaps when you're having a break from your case," she said, "we can spend some time together."

"I'd like that."

This was beginning to sound like she was asking for a second date. She added, quite pathetically, "So, whenever you're free…"

"I won't be back in London until tomorrow, or Sunday…"

 _Tomorrow! He's not back in London yet?_

"But, actually, I was thinking," Sherlock continued, oblivious to Violet's disappointment. "I've been doing a bit of research, and I've uncovered that Lauren Myrtle was murdered in a seedy little hotel on the outskirts of Birmingham."

"Yes, I know that."

"So I could stop there and check around. I have contacts in the West Midlands CID. See if I can dig up anything about her case."

Violet's immediate reaction was purely selfish, she knew that. She wanted him home!

"That's… that's a good idea," she replied—to herself, unconvincingly, to Sherlock? Who knew, for the detective's tone immediately changed.

He quickly told Violet had he had to go. She learnt that he was standing on the banks of the River Irwell, and he was waiting for a Greater Manchester Police CID detective to retrieve a map from the car. With promises to phone her over the weekend to keep her updated on his movements, Sherlock ended the call.

Violet snuggled deeper into the back of the sofa. She was hoping Sherlock had been sitting in some lonely hotel room in Manchester, and they would settle in for the night with him telling her quite detailed deductions and theories, while she curled up and drifted off to sleep listening to his voice.

Of course, she would've had to make excuses to Mandi for standing her up tonight, but now there would be no need.

Violet wearily took herself to the bathroom to get ready for the night ahead. Mandi was taking her to a Hen Party for a woman Violet only vaguely knew. Mandi and the Hen worked together behind the Cleo de Thebes perfume counter in Selfridges. A Hen Party was probably the worst kind of night out for someone who was trying to curb their alcohol intake, but Violet quite successfully stuck to three white wines before extricating herself when the shot glasses came out.

When she returned to her dad's flat at the Brassworks, she felt she had to stay awake and alert, or at least sleep on the sofa. Mandi was supposed to be staying the night, it being a closer place to crash than travelling all the way to her flat in the Aylesbury Estate. Violet dutifully made herself available and buzzed Mandi in at a little after 2am.

She then spent most of Saturday morning getting Mandi into some kind of acceptable state for a fashion show, Selfridges Spring Collection, in the afternoon. Violet and a handful of her _Regency_ co-stars were invited to attend. Their invitations stated that they could bring one guest, and Violet had promised to take Mandi weeks ago—not that Violet would've wanted to bring along her boyfriend instead, now that they'd reconciled. Violet smiled to herself at the idea that Sherlock Holmes, with his aloof demeanour and sharp looks, would be better suited to strutting the catwalk than sitting in the audience of a fashion show.

As it was, Mandi sat next to Violet, and complained, in a volume only just one notch below discreet, that they should be sitting in the front row, not the third.

"It's a fashion show in a department store, not the Burberry Collection," Violet murmured back. "And I'm not an A-lister."

"Well why is the Member for Whatever getting to sit in the front row with her husband, for God's sake! What do politicians have to do with fashion?"

"Mandi, shush!"

Violet was thankful that Mandi felt re-energised for a second big night out with another group of friends. This gave Violet the chance to have a quiet night in, grab her favourite pre-made salad from the local Tesco Express, and settle in to read _Canning Town_. She had put _Catherine Hilderness_ aside.

The whole audition process and subsequent wait to find out she wasn't going to be seen again for the mini-series was ego-crushingly disappointing. She had tried to convince herself of the benefits of the audition—she had met and impressed Jamie Rho-Katten, who was quite a successful casting director, contracted quite a few times by the BBC, and she was sure the director, Damian Oakeshott thought favourably of Violet as well. It was just a pity the producer and male lead, Sir Henry Masters, had no interest in even seeing her. What an old-school, snooty bastard! What ever happened to trusting the opinion of the casting director? Wasn't that _their_ job—casting?

Violet eventually threw aside her novel, and scoured both Netflix on her computer and Sky Movies on her dad's TV for a movie featuring Ursula Aldman in her heyday. She watched snippets on YouTube, then spent a bit of time, probably too long actually, pulling faces in the bathroom mirror—Ursula Aldman-type faces—and thinking she could definitely match Aldman's adult Catherine with her own younger version.

 _Cunts!_ she thought viciously, then immediately felt guilty at her show of poor sportsmanship. No, it was only poor sportsmanship if she felt ill of the actress who won the part over her, and they hadn't announced the casting for the role yet.

Violet flopped onto her bed, feeling the exhaustion of a day spent molly-coddling her best friend. The prospect of unemployment loomed, that empty void between roles, that could stretch endlessly til the rest of her days. It was the unknown that terrified her.

She vowed to shut that down, just like she always did; she'd prop herself up with positive self-talk, promises to eat healthily and take regular exercise. With this in mind, Violet decided to turn in early and wake refreshed with enough enthusiasm to go for a jog around Hyde Park. She no longer had the convenience of the Islington Boxing club just up the road. When she had lived with her dad last year, she had jogged on a few occasions on a five mile route through the north to the east of the park that also took her alongside the Serpentine in the middle. It was quite pleasant in the early hours. Perhaps if she stuck to a regular routine, she could work up to the ten mile route.

True to her plans, Violet rose the next morning full of energy. She quickly dressed before the burdens of her negative self could weigh her down. After splashing cold water on her face, she regarded her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Violet displayed her best Ursula Aldman expression, circa 1990, and delivered her killer line to the Hilderness antagonist, Mr Milverton, to be portrayed by Sir Henry. She frowned, laughed to herself, then hastily left the Brassworks.

So hastily, in fact, that she had forgotten her music. But at least she remembered her drink bottle. It was ultimately fine though, as she listened to the rhythm of her trainers pounding the pavement. It brought her focus.

She should ring Jamie Rho-Katten, the casting director, she thought as she jogged along. And ask to read for Sir Henry. No… _demand_. Take control of her own destiny, and cut out the middle man, in this case her agent, Polly Stoper. Did successful actors do that? Or was she crossing the line? Could she be blacklisted by the casting director for being overly demanding?

It wasn't long before Violet had settled into a good rhythm along North Carriage Drive, the road that skirted the northern perimeter of Hyde Park. Lost in her own thoughts she eventually became aware of a car slowing down beside her. She willed it to continue past and hoped it wasn't some _Regency_ fan who had recognised her. But the car accelerated a little before pulling up at the kerb a few metres in front of her. The rear door swung open.

Violet was in two minds about sprinting past the car, or veering off the footpath and taking off into the park.

"Vi."

His voice was unmistakeable.

 _Jake._

-oOo-


	12. And Somebody Loves You

**Chapter 11 – And Somebody Loves You**

As the vehicle crossed the Serpentine for the southern side of Hyde Park, the pair lapsed into an uneasy silence. The conversation topics about Violet's acting career and her relocation to her dad's place at the Brassworks had been exhausted. Yes, she had told Jake, she actually had a career in the acting industry, she wasn't 'dabbling' in amateur theatre productions, and yes, her hair had been dyed black for a TV show that millions of people watch worldwide. Violet would usually ask Jake about his businesses or tease him about his love life, or lack of, but the lapse in conversation signalled that it was time to get around to the real reason Jake had instigated this meeting.

"Why are we—?" Violet began before Jake cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"We're not discussing it in the car."

Violet's pulse raced once more. This reminded Violet of last year— _we're not having coffee_ —while they were driving around Ealing, on the evening Jake proposed to her. This wasn't Jake just stirring up trouble—feigning innocence by asking her out for coffee knowing she had a boyfriend, as he had done when she was dating Nick. Jake appeared uncomfortable in her presence—rubbing a hand along his thigh and not making eye contact—and he was usually relaxed and over-confident. _Except when he asked me to marry him_. Surely he wasn't going to try for a second time? He really wasn't that thick.

So why wouldn't he discuss this topic, whatever it was, while they were travelling?

"Is it because you're under surveillance?" Violet asked, the photos of her and Jake's meeting in Ealing last year firmly in mind.

Jake's expression softened a little, and Violet was sure there was a hint of a smile there.

He said, "I'm not under surveillance any more, thanks to you."

"What? Why?"

Jake shrugged, but his eyes sparkled in amusement.

"Word from high up. All evidence relating Violet Hunter to organised crime—I guess that includes me?" he asked, his smile broadening. "The evidence was destroyed. All current surveillance called off, too, yeah?" Jake reached for Violet's hand. His usual arrogance was back then.

Violet gently removed her hand from Jake's loose grip.

"And how do you know all this?" she asked.

"I know people."

"What people?"

Jake gave a tiny laugh instead of an answer, and he looked away from her and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Obviously he had no intention of telling her. Violet kept her expression neutral, but she made a mental note to tell Sherlock to advise his brother that there were informants working in SOCA. Then a mild panic gripped her, and she turned her attention out of her window in case her eyes gave her away. Could she betray Jake by telling Sherlock? Or should she not interfere? Was that betraying Sherlock—saying nothing? She'd told Sherlock she wouldn't reveal anything about her past life with Jake, but this information was _current_.

She fiddled with her hands, which felt foreign to her because of Mandi's insistence they both get their nails done before the fashion show yesterday. She looked down at the false extensions and wished she'd removed them before going out for a jog this morning. They looked ridiculous, and she was going to have to take them off before returning to set tomorrow anyway. Christa Barlow couldn't afford such lavish adornments, could she?

"Y'all right?"

Violet looked up at Jake. He had probably been studying her as she stared at her hands. Violet gave him a reassuring half smile, then turned to regard the houses they were now passing. Jake had given her the option of having their chat back at her dad's house (which she felt was too intrusive), or to go to a little place in Kensington that a business acquaintance of his allowed him to use while in London. This was news to Violet, and she was a tiny bit curious. This 'little place' turned out to be in a part of Kensington and Chelsea that Violet thought the Manchester nightclub owner had no business residing: Belgravia.

"Um… who?"

The car had pulled up outside a white stuccoed terrace house in a quiet, leafy street that formed one side of a square, in the centre of which sprawled an elegant garden. Jake hadn't replied to Violet, so she still didn't know who owned the residence.

Jake held the car door for her, and she felt extremely under-dressed in her jogging gear as she climbed out. He ushered Violet to the portico where the front door seemed to open automatically for them. Violet found herself in a warm entrance hall, lit by a small overhead chandelier, and featuring a staircase rising up to the next floor. The door closed behind them, and whoever had opened it had disappeared into the shadows.

"Make yourself comfortable in there," Jake bid her, indicating a reception room to the left of the entrance. "I'll just be a minute."

Jake strode toward the back of the house, leaving Violet to hesitantly approach the open doorway to what appeared to be a drawing room. The room felt cold and uninviting, although it was tastefully decorated and furnished in white and gold, with panels of damask wallpaper. It was the lack of people, and the absence of _living_ that made her feel uncomfortable. No magazines or books or newspapers. No leftover cups of tea. _I can't relate to people who don't relax and read._

"Pardon me, ma'am," a soft voice spoke behind Violet. She spun around to find a well-groomed auburn-haired woman standing in the doorway. She didn't seem to be much older than Violet. "I'm Kate. Mr Venucci sent me to ask if you'd like anything to drink."

Drink? On a Sunday morning? Jake wasn't really the _tea for two_ type. He'd only meet her for coffee under sufferance, the man preferring pubs and clubs to tea houses.

"I'm fine thanks," Violet replied, and she feebly held up her water bottle.

The woman, Kate, gave Violet the quick once over, then finished with a tiny smile, before exiting as silently as she'd entered.

Violet slowly paced around the room, examining the décor. She didn't think she ought to take a seat on either of the lounges—the white leather sofa, nor the chaise, or the armchair in the middle of the room. It wasn't as if she had worked up a sweat while jogging; she had only just started when Jake's car pulled up. But this whole scenario was disturbing, and she couldn't relax. Besides, where had Jake got to?

While Violet was examining the ornate framework on the mirror above the fireplace, Jake strode confidently into the room. He paused, assessed where Violet was standing, glanced at her water bottle she had placed on a small black sidetable, then turned and closed the door behind him.

"And _now_ can we have this conversation we have to have?" she asked, meeting Jake in the middle of the room.

But the air in the room had changed, Violet suddenly realised.

"What the fuck is going on with you?"

Violet stopped breathing as Jake approached her. She lifted her gaze to meet his eyes as he pulled up right in front of her. She barely stammered out a "What?" before Jake spoke over her.

"Your boyfriend. Sherlock fucking Holmes. A Private Detective who works for the Met."

 _Way to open up the conversation, Jake._

She wanted to swallow the lump that had rapidly formed in her throat, but opted to draw in and release a calming breath instead. So it was going to be like this. A confrontation. Her automatic defences kicked in, and she said, "This isn't new to you. You knew who I was dating. And what business is it of yours?"

Jake's face hardened even further. He glared down at Violet.

"Do you know who his brother is?"

This sideways step in conversation initially threw her. She opened her mouth to reply _Yes_ , when Jake cut in.

"Mycroft fucking Holmes." Jake turned from Violet, giving himself room to move about the floor. "He walks the halls of M.I. fucking Five and Six, and commands the tossers at SOCA. But he's a skittish bastard, isn't he?" Jake directed a steely gaze toward Violet.

She furrowed her brow. There was something uncomfortably familiar with the cadence of his _speech_ , not just the words he spoke.

Jake continued talking, pacing this way and that. "What it is, right, he's not on any _file_ for those organisations, just a lowly twat in the Ministry of Defence. But you're under his protection." Jake stabbed an accusatory finger in Violet's direction. He stalked back toward her, saying, "Why? Why is Violet Hunter so fucking special?" He stopped directly in front of her, narrowing his eyes. "Are you a grass now? Is that what this is? Are you gonna grass us up?"

Violet gaped a little. She was almost about to either deny the accusation, or query Jake on how he knew so much about Mycroft Holmes, when it dawned on her why Jake was behaving like this—where his Northern accent always became just that little bit more… _Mancunian_ , why his eyes ran wild, and a restlessness dominated his movements.

Violet lifted a hand to Jake's chest and prodded him, asking, "Are you fucking high?" Jake straightened up, standing even taller over Violet. "That's why you disappeared, isn't it? You raced off to the bathroom for a bit of blow."

"Fuck off," he replied, taking a step back. A low menace resounded in his tone. "You know how this works. Stop being a fucking tart about it."

"No," Violet said, a tightness spreading in her chest. This was a horrible déjà vu. She had already lived this life, for fuck's sake. Jake had no business bringing his crappy existence back into hers. She made to clench her fists, but her nails prevented her from curling them all the way, reminding her of some other life she lived now. Her jaw tightened, and she snapped, "We're not doing this."

Violet made a move for the door, but Jake reached out and gripped her arm as she tried to brush past him.

"We're fucking doing this now." He turned her to face him, but immediately released his grip on her. "Because I've got a message for you to give your interfering boyfriend, from my business associates."

Violet's first thought was _No_ , as she stood dumbly staring up at Jake. _No_. She hadn't wanted Sherlock's investigation to go anywhere near Jake. She hadn't thought—had not wanted to believe—that her ex-boyfriend maintained any sort of connection to Sebastian Moran, if that's who his _business associate_ was. But Jake knew so much about Mycroft's role, and he could never ordinarily acquire that kind of intelligence himself. And why would he need to? Disappointment washed over her. She didn't want Jake and Sherlock to be on opposing sides with her in the middle. Was she in the middle? Because now here she was, being asked to deliver a fucking message between the pair.

"No," she said, finally vocalising her objection. "I'm not doing it."

"Don't fuck around with me, Vi. Do you even know who you're dealing with?"

"Sherlock is in Manchester," she snapped. "Why'd you have to come all this way to deliver a fucking message to me, when he was right there!"

"I was already here," Jake replied coolly. "In London. They asked me to have a word with you before I left."

Violet studied Jake's eyes. He was so obviously high; she could see that now. And he was being used as someone's lackey, stressing himself in the process and now he was doing coke again. They both were being used as pawns in someone else's game, and she wasn't about to play along.

"Who's ' _they'_?" she asked.

Jake quickly glanced away and exhaled deeply. He locked eyes with Violet once more.

"The message to Sherlock Holmes is ' _Back off!'_ "

"Are you fucking serious?" Violet asked, trying to produce a laugh. "That's their fucking bullshit, macho message? I'm not delivering shit. You can fuck off, the lot of you."

She moved away from her ex-boyfriend once more, but he roughly pulled her back.

"You don't know these people," he said, gripping her arms tightly. "Don't fuck around with them."

"Let me go," she said, raising her arms and jerking them out of his grip. "I'm not playing this fucking _king of the castle_ game between some anonymous fucking dickhead and Sherlock. "And neither should you. Why are you even associated—"

"Do you think they're going to protect you for long, these public-schooled wankers?"

"Fuck off."

Jake moved even closer, and lowered his voice. "Do they know I found you in my club, lying in a pool of your own vom—"

"Shut up!" she said, stepping backward, her face prickling.

"That's how _we_ met," Jake continued. "And which back alley did Fucking Twat Holmes find you passed out in?"

Violet lashed out, slapping Jake hard across the cheek, a blind fury clouding her better judgement. Jake appeared unaffected, and Violet's hand stung.

"You never fucking change," he said. "You think you've made it with your boyfriend and you're fucking show on the telly. I bet you're still a drunk and one crazy fucking tart."

Violet shoved Jake, hard, but he barely moved. He began to chuckle and grabbed one of her wrists. Violet's heart raced. She wanted to damage him. She hated the smug coked-up bastard. She hated him for reducing her to this; for reminding her that this is all she really was.

"Go on," he said in a low, mocking voice. "Take a proper swing."

Violet needed no encouragement. She couldn't ball her hand into a fist because of her nails, but she took a swipe all the same. Jake had turned his head to receive what he thought was going to be another slap, but he swore in surprise as Violet's nails gouged his neck and jawline. Bright red streaks appeared, dotted with blood. But she wasn't finished yet. Before he fully recovered she shoved him again, and this time he stumbled backward, caught off balance.

"I fucking hate you!"

But Jake was quicker than she was, and he lunged forward, grabbing her arm and spinning her around until her back was to him and he could lock his arms around her.

"You fucking love it," he send bending her forward so he could mutter directly into her ear. "You're a psycho bitch, but you _love this._ "

Violet willed herself to focus, because she was better than this, and she had to stop him tormenting her. She had to control her usual impulses. And now she'd had proper training, for fuck's sake. _Sherlock_ , she thought, almost losing her composure when it seemed that the life she was living with him was a faraway dream. A fantasy. Was this her sharp reality?

 _No!_ Sherlock had taught her something. They'd wrestled for fun! He'd shown her self-defence moves, because he was a loving, caring boyfriend, and she was attentive and affectionate. She was better than whatever Jake had tried to make of her.

 _So, concentrate, for fuck's sake!_

Violet bent further forward, the same direction Jake had been applying pressure, and when she felt his grip easing, she suddenly arched backward, snapping her head back and feeling the satisfying crunch as the back of her skull collided with Jake's nose. He cried out in pain, as expected, called her a _cunt_ , also as expected, and he lost hold of her. She raised a foot with the idea of stamping her heel down hard on his foot—a classic self-defence move Sherlock had shown her—but Jake shoved her hard, away from him and she lost her balance and fell forward.

Violet was reeling, unprepared for the impact of the ground, but even harsher was a sudden blow on the side of her face. Her cheek, nose, and jaw screamed in protest. _What... the... fuck!_

She could feel the ground already beneath her, but she curled up onto her side, cupping her cheek as if she had to hold shattered pieces in place. There was a rush of movement around her. Men, and testosterone and shoving and yelling. Her cheekbones and jaw still resonated sharply and Violet forced her eyes open to see what was going on.

A table leg dominated her vision. Had she fallen hard against the side of the coffee table on her way down? But there were legs. Male legs. Jake was shoving someone… _Danny?_ …out of the room.

"… I'll fucking end you," were his parting words.

She tried to raise her head, and prop herself up onto her elbows, but there seemed to be an extra weight on her face. It was weighed down with pain, that's what it was. But her hand felt sticky. She half sat up, but the world tilted the wrong way, and suddenly it was upside down and her face was on the rug again. Footsteps. Trousers. Jake's voice from somewhere through a thick fog.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Vi."

She blearily opened her eyes again. He loomed over her and was reaching for her. Instinctly she turned her face, thought she might roll away, but suddenly she was airborne.

"… get you cleaned up," she heard him say through the thick soup of her mind, and the loud ringing in one ear.

Her head lolled against his chest, and all she could think about was blood on a white shirt. Too much blood. Poor white shirt. That stain will never come out. Jake was muttering under his breath, and she only caught the odd _fuck_ or two. He carried her along a corridor and eased her through a doorway, and she thought she was now in a hospital. They'd done it. She was officially broken and needed mending.

Being set down. A big bright room. Lots of tiles and mirrors and a pretty chaise lounge in the middle that she now lay upon. What the fuck kind of hospital was this?

She must've looked confused as her eyes darted here and there because Jake said, "Yeah, it's the guest bathroom. You should see the main one upstairs."

So they were still in the house.

A warm, wet cloth, wiping at her face. Jake with a furrowed brow as he tended to her. He wiped a hand to his own nose, which was bleeding. He caught her watching him.

"We're a right fucking pair," he remarked, with a lopsided smile.

Violet couldn't smile. Her top lip felt fat and it tingled. She tried to sit up.

"No, don't. Not yet."

Violet obeyed. She couldn't think straight. She had been making her move; one final assault so she could hurt Jake and storm out, ending this ridiculous episode. But it all went wrong.

Jake had moved away from her and Violet could hear a tap running. He came back with a fresh towel and began dabbing it to her mouth and cheek again.

"Fuck off," she murmured, but it came out funny. _F's_. Her fat lip couldn't form the letter _F_ properly. She would have to lay off swearing for a bit then.

Jake ignored her protesting as he concentrated on wiping away the blood from her face.

"It's from your nose mostly," he said, as if answering a question she had posed. "And your lip's cut, but I've stopped the bleeding." Then a thick stream of blood began to creep down his own nose again, and he swore and left Violet to tend to his own needs at the sink.

Violet forced herself to sit up this time. She caught her own reflection in one of the many mirrors surrounding her. Jake's eyes met hers in the mirror above the basin.

"Did you say you were on telly?" he asked, dropping the cloth he used on himself and turning on the tap in front of him so he could rinse it. "You might need time off for a day or two."

A reddish purple bruise was spread at an angle across Violet's cheek, like badly applied rouge. Her top lip was definitely swollen and broken by a shallow angry cut. She now had drying blood underneath her nose and as she continued to stare at her reflection, a new stream began to course its way toward her lip. There was a towel on the lounge next to her, so she hurriedly pressed it to her nose.

Jake was back in front of her again, and he knelt down and peered critically at her face, having stemmed his own bleeding. His white shirt was covered in red blotches. Her blood or his?

"You… are a proper skank," he said, his tone full of affection. "Why'd you have to try it on, hey?"

"You started it... you f-fucking arsehole."

Jake reached up and drew aside a strand of Violet's fringe.

"And you're not even drunk," he said. "So what's your excuse now?"

As they wearily regarded each other, Kate, the woman who had spoken to Violet earlier, appeared in the doorway.

"Can I help you with anything, Mr Venucci?" she asked, and Violet could see her eyes darting to the numerous blood-stained towels deposited here and there. The fluffy, former _white_ towels that were supposedly for guests. Violet guiltily lowered the towel that she had been using to stem her bloody nose.

"We're sorted here, love," Jake replied, without taking his eyes from Violet. "Fuck off, yeah?"

Kate did as she was told and left the pair alone. As her footsteps died away, Jake brought his hand up to cup the side of Violet's face—the good side.

"How did we get here then?" he asked softly.

Violet didn't have an answer for him. She wondered how she was ever going to exist in her shiny new life again, the one with celebrity interviews, and shopping centre fashion shows, sitting in a make-up chair or signing autographs.

And being with Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed as if she was doomed to keep returning to this scene with Jacob Venucci.

Her eyes stung as they locked with Jake's. He'd kept his hand to her face and he leant forward, bringing his lips toward hers. Violet immediately recoiled before their lips could touch.

"Please don't," she whispered, his face only inches from hers.

Jake froze in place, before his thumb lightly skimmed Violet's cheek. He dropped his hand and straightened up. His expression remained curious, but unsure.

"I'm in love with Sherlock," Violet said. "Please try to remember and respect that."

Jake's eyes went dull and they narrowed. He quickly scanned Violet's face before he stood up, and said, in a voice devoid of emotion, "The bleeding's stopped. I'll get Dan to drive you home."

-oOo-


	13. Who Would She Bother Protecting

**Chapter 12 –** **Who Would She Bother Protecting?**

Violet stepped out of the shower and towel-dried her hair, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She'd already assessed it quite a few times since returning home, and there was nothing she could do about the bruised cheek or the cut lip. Staring and obsessing over them several more times was an exercise in futility and worry.

Her mind would then drift to Sherlock, and whatever his reaction might be. Her insides were awash with guilt and regret, and part of her was glad he was going to stop in Birmingham on the way back from Manchester to investigate the cold case of Lauren Myrtle's murder. If he needed to be there for most of the week, that would be great, wouldn't it? Her mess of a face wouldn't be so raw then, and she may not have to explain anything to him. This was between her and Jake, as it always had been. There was only the message to deliver, wasn't there?

But the idea of Sherlock being away for a few more days made Violet's heart race. She needed him here, and now! More than ever. For what? She didn't know. Just to hold her. Just to be not like Jake Venucci. Just to not _be_ Jake. To remind her that this is her life now.

Violet picked up her phone several times, in between dressing, making herself a cup of tea, cutting off her nail extensions, applying icepacks, and staring at the almost empty fridge wondering if she had an appetite for lunch yet. She also had to do something about her work. Should she call or email the studio and say she was sick? For how many days? Or could they cover up the bruising and split lip with make-up, if she could think up a plausible _lie_ for how she got them?

She could lie to the studio—she _had_ to lie to the studio—but she had promised herself never to keep things from Sherlock again. Look at how that had escalated last time.

In between thinking and dwelling, Violet managed to clean and tidy around her dad's flat—a rare occurrence for her, but she was trying to keep herself occupied. She was just loading the washing machine when her phone began to ring. The caller id she most wanted and most feared to see lit up the screen. _Sherlock_.

Violet squeezed her nose hard, to stop the build up of pressure that would have her sob out a greeting instead of answering calmly. She forced a smile to her lips as she swiped the screen to answer, giving her "hello," an almost pleasant ring to it. Sherlock's greeting held his usual warmth and affection for her, and Violet almost lost it for the second time.

"How's it going?" she managed to ask, keeping her tone light and conversational.

"Despite nearly everyone in Manchester asking me if I'm _all right_ every five minutes, they're actually halfway to being competent," Sherlock replied, then he launched into a description of a couple of detective sergeants and their DCI who possessed a small amount of imagination, which was a crucial attribute to have in the business of solving crimes. Then he mentioned the half-wits at Scotland Yard, so it was a comparative verbal essay then, and Violet was grateful for the chance to compose herself before she was required to respond.

"But I'm just on my way to the station," he said, after his CID analysis, "So I'll be in Birmingham this afternoon. One of the detectives who originally worked on Lauren's case is retired, so I can visit her tonight. Then I'll spend most of the week with the West Midlands CID. Perhaps I'll still be there by the weekend if you want to join me. Do you have anything on?"

Violet heard a disembodied voice, small, feeble and kind of desperate, say, "Please come home."

Then she realised it was her own voice, and she hoped she hadn't said that out loud.

But Sherlock was silent for a moment or two, perhaps still waiting for her to answer about her plans for next weekend, until he spoke. His voice had dropped a notch.

"Why? Violet's what's wrong?"

Dammit! She _had_ spoken her needy thoughts aloud.

"I'm…" she took a step backward, then about-faced and began to pace around the flat, hoping a clearer thought would come to her in a new location. "I'm just tired… and emotional. Don't worry." She increased her stride, perhaps to outmanoeuvre her irrational emotions. "And I've been doing housework. I don't know why. Dad still has a cleaner coming every Wednesday. I guess he knows how hopeless I am at tidying up. I really shouldn't bother with the cleaning aspect because—"

"Violet."

"—she's going to clean everything again anyway."

"What's happened?"

Violet came to an abrupt halt. What was she thinking? Her boyfriend was Sherlock Holmes. She'd never get away with fooling him.

"Just come home," she said in defeat. "I have to go."

And she ended the call.

Violet dropped her hand to her side, and had only managed to draw in a calming breath when her phone began to ring again. She knew who it was without checking the screen. She answered anyway, but didn't have to speak.

Sherlock said immediately, "I'm going to catch the next train to London. Tell me what happened, and do it quickly before I lose service. And even if I do, I'll ring you back as soon as it returns."

"No," she said. "Just come home. I'm fine… going to be fine… now."

"Violet."

"Just come home, Sherlock. And we'll talk. I promise."

And she regretfully ended the call once more. She hoped Sherlock would rush to catch the train, with getting back here a bigger priority than trying to convince her to talk to him.

She hated this. She knew he was worried now. She stared at her phone screen again, both daring it to ring, and willing it not to ring.

 _Just catch the damn train, Sherlock._

She didn't want to tell him anything about Jake while Sherlock was still in Manchester. What if he decided to stay there and wait for Jake to return? Jake was already on his way north, so she had to get her boyfriend back here before she told him anything.

Her phone didn't ring again in spite of Violet keeping it in her hand instead of her pocket, just so she could glare at the screen now and again. She eventually pocketed it and got back to her household chores by pulling out the ironing board. She was going to iron all of her clothes for the coming week. How organised would that be!

She was just getting set up in the living room when the intercom for the entrance door downstairs buzzed. Violet froze. Surely it couldn't be Sherlock already! But two things told her that that was unlikely: it had only been half an hour since she spoke to him, and he had his own access card.

Violet thought she would just pretend she was out, and not answer. There was no way she could let anyway see her just yet, with her face looking like this. What if it was Mandi? The fuss she'd make!

But Violet found herself in front of the security panel anyway. She wanted to at least check the screen to see who it was in case she needed to lie about her whereabouts later. _So many lies!_

Violet pressed the button to turn on the camera feed that would show the entrance downstairs from a camera mounted above the door, rather than the one in front of the caller, which would turn on a light letting the caller know you were watching them. Violet was stunned to see John Watson standing there. She wondered why he would be here. Did he even know she'd moved? John and Mary had never visited her when she was living at her dad's last year, so she didn't even think they had the address.

Violet could see John was restlessly moving his feet, the way he did when he was agitated. And when he turned to glance at the door, she saw the phone he held up to his ear. The way he was moving his head told her that he was speaking, and he wasn't happy. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to deduce who he was speaking to.

No wonder Sherlock hadn't phoned her again. Obviously he'd got hold of his best friend and demanded he check up on Violet on his behalf. _And keep me on the line,_ _John_ , he would've ordered his friend, _and tell me how she is._ So he must be travelling on the part of the overground that enabled his phone to get a signal. _Unless he was still in Manchester!_

Violet clenched her fists, a hurried plan forming in her mind. She reached out and pressed the intercom.

"Hi John! Second floor, 7B. See you soon."

And she raced off to her dad's study.

-o-

"I'm sure she's fine," John said wearily for the umpteenth time since Sherlock had phoned him. "And I'm only on the first floor, hang on!"

John continued tromping up the stairs. His efforts to enlighten his best friend about the ways and wonders of women and their menstrual cycle had fallen on deaf ears, and the doctor found himself in a cab racing across London to appease the mind of the world's only Consulting Detective.

"Okay," he said, continuing in his running commentary on his current location. "Second floor. Now how does this numbering system work? Is there a 7A?"

"All the B's are on the second floor," Sherlock replied. "The A's are on the first floor. They're trying to be trendy or something."

John sighed and continued walking. "Five, six... okay seven."

"Press the buzzer by the side of the—"

"Yeah, I can see that," John replied irritably. It wasn't like he was about to defuse a bomb or anything. Or was he? Wasn't it enough that he had his own fiancée's moods to decipher? How had he found himself acting as the female mood interpreter for Sherlock Holmes?

"Yes, Sherlock," he had said to the detective-genius in the cab on the way over. "We all know that when a woman says she's _fine_ it means the exact opposite."

John heard footsteps approaching the door. Should he commentate on everything? Violet would think he was a dickhead.

"Okay," he said into the phone, gearing himself up for describing Violet's mood in intricate detail.

The door opened a little and a note was thrust out and held in front of him.

"I'm..." John began, before narrowing his eyes and scanning the rather large words scrawled in uppercase on the notepaper.

DON'T SAY  
ANYTHING  
TO  
SHERLOCK!

"Ah... here's..."

The notepaper was turned over, and the writing was a tad smaller.

HE HAS TO  
COME BACK  
TO LONDON!  
If you tell him  
what you see  
he will stay up  
north!

The door opened wider, and John saw Violet's face.

"...Violet. Okay, better go say hello, otherwise she'll think I'm a rude bastard."

" _John_."

John quickly ended the call before Sherlock could get another word out. Violet opened the door wider and ushered him in.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

"It looks worse than it is."

"It looks fucking bad, Violet. Excuse my language."

John's phone began to ring again.

"I'm sorry, John," Violet said, closing the door behind him.

"Ah, yeah," John said, rejecting the call then pocketing his phone. "He's going to be pissed if I keep doing that. Do you want me to have a look?"

"I think I'm okay."

"Just your face?" John asked, fearing much, much worse.

Violet nodded. "Really, I'm okay."

"Just let me check."

John followed Violet to the living room sofa, glad that she had acquiesced. He sat on the coffee table in front of her to examine her facial injuries. He was fairly satisfied she had done all the right things, such as applying ice and making sure the cut on her lip stayed cleaned. He verified that she wasn't experiencing any numbness about the face, or double or blurred vision, and she could close her mouth properly. He had kept all conversation strictly to her injuries, pausing only once to turn his phone off when Sherlock called again.

But now delicate questions needed to be asked.

"Why would Sherlock not want to come home if he knew you were... injured?"

"Because of how it happened."

John emitted a discreet sigh. Was Violet going to be cagey about the cause of her injury?

"John, I'm sorry," Violet continued. "You deserve to hear the truth after helping me lie to Sherlock."

"Look, if you need a bit of time—"

"No. It's fine. It was... a bit of an... accident. An argument that got out of hand… a little."

"With… who?"

"My ex-boyfriend. The one from Manchester. Well, he was heading back, and I didn't want Sherlock to stay up there, waiting for him."

"Oh. Ah… Jacob... Venucci, was it?"

"Yes."

John cleared his throat, but it was really in an effort to clear his mind of the memory of the photo he had seen of Violet and Venucci having sex, courtesy of Mycroft's file. He really, really would like to forget that image.

"So..." John began. "You had an argument?"

"Yes, and I got upset, and hit him a couple of times. Head-butted him, actually. And then he shoved me and I fell face-first onto a coffee table. I know, it sounds stupid, but that's what happened."

John raked his eyes over Violet's face once more. "Right," he said. "Sherlock would probably..."

"He'd get upset and blame Jake. Or something. I don't know. He once head-butted another ex-boyfriend of mine because he said something derogatory about me. Or us. I can't remember."

John's eyebrows shot up. This was news to him. He thought Sherlock was fairly immune to name-calling. Although, John guessed, if the insult wasn't directed at the Consulting Detective but the woman he loved, well that was a whole other thing.

Violet offered to make John a cup of tea, but had to renege when she discovered she was out of milk. John offered to go to the shops for her and pick up a few other items if she liked. Violet had said she would be fine without the other things, as Sherlock would be back in the city soon and he could take care of the shopping, but John insisted that he at least go pick up milk and something for afternoon tea.

He left the Brassworks in two minds as to whether he should turn his phone back on or not, or incur the Consulting Detective's wrath later. Perhaps he'd take his chances on Sherlock's wrath much later, he finally decided.

-oOo-


	14. Love is a Much More Vicious Motivator

**Chapter 13 – Love Is a Much More Vicious Motivator**

Sherlock practically sprinted from the cab across the pavement to the downstairs door to the Brassworks. In front of him, pushing open the entrance door, was a familiar figure struggling with a bag of groceries while checking his phone.

"Here, let me get that for you," Sherlock said, propping open the door above the shorter man's head.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John exclaimed in surprise. "What did you do? Run faster than the train?"

"A two hour trip, John, plus a five minute cab ride from Euston Station. It wasn't a trek across the Himalayas."

The pair commenced climbing the stairs, with Sherlock, small suitcase in hand, just edging past John.

"Yeah, well, Sherlock about all this..."

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock called back. "I'm forty-two seconds away from finding out for myself the reason behind your and Violet's deception."

"Well, she's fine, by the way," John huffed, as he struggled to keep up with the detective.

"But not fine enough that you couldn't turn your phone back on."

"Hang on, Sherlock," John bid his friend, stopping on the landing to the first floor.

Sherlock pulled up, and fixed John with an impatient glare.

"Why don't you take this up," John said, holding out the bag of groceries. "And I'll give you two time... alone... to... ah..."

Sherlock reached out with his free hand and relieved his friend of the plastic bag, taking a cursory glance at its contents. "I suppose I should thank you," Sherlock said. "But I'll have to reserve my decision until I see Violet."

John emitted a tiny cough, then said, "Maybe go easy on her."

Sherlock carefully scrutinised his friend. Unshaven, sleepless nights, but very content. The doctor had put on five pounds since Sherlock had seen him last.

"In your opinion, _Doctor_ ," Sherlock said, "Would you say Violet Hunter was premenstrual?"

John drew his lips into a thin line, then inhaled and exhaled deeply.

"Not enough evidence," he replied.

Sherlock gave John a half-smile, then continued on upstairs.

The detective only felt slightly better after encountering John. During the two hour journey, his imagination had run wild, and he had thought up four possible theories for Violet's peculiar behaviour on the phone, and John's subsequent cover-up. Now that he had seen John, he was down to three theories.

Sherlock juggled both suitcase and groceries in one hand, and retrieved the access card from his pocket. He then swiped it against the panel beside the door. He gently pushed on the door, and quietly entered, his senses immediately taking in the living area.

Violet wasn't in sight, but Sherlock could hear the faint hum of the clothes dryer. _So she's done a load of washing._ The living area was absent of Violet's usual messy presence, so he concluded that she was telling the truth about tidying up a bit as well.

Sherlock dropped his suitcase by the door, then ventured in further. He would only have to lay eyes on Violet to decide which theory would be correct. When he spied an icepack and a tube of antiseptic cream on the coffee table, his theories had reduced to two. Sherlock's throat ran dry and his heart rate accelerated. They weren't the good theories.

Finally he called out, "Violet."

He counted three seconds before she responded.

"I'm in the kitchen."

 _Three seconds._

So she was fearful of what Sherlock would think, because she needed a moment to find her voice. Sherlock eliminated one more theory, which meant he was left with one theory: one suspect, one possible perpetrator.

Since Violet didn't appear in the doorway, Sherlock strode toward the kitchen instead, dropping the bag of groceries onto an armchair. He wanted to see Violet unhindered by anything.

He rounded the corner and found Violet leaning against the kitchen sink, waiting for him. Her eyes were wide and glazed. She was on the verge of tears, he observed. He stopped just inside the entrance to the kitchen. He couldn't help it, but he had to notice everything first, even though he knew, in his heart, what had happened.

 _Blunt force trauma to the right-side of her face, small laceration on her upper lip._ But what injuries couldn't he see?

Violet was still waiting for his reaction. He could see she wasn't breathing in anticipation.

Sherlock's face remained impassive as he uttered one word. One name.

"Jake."

Violet exhaled almost out of relief. The nod in affirmation was imperceptible to all but the trained eye of a Consulting Detective. A surge of adrenalin shot through Sherlock, and he turned and strode out of the kitchen, making a swift bid for the front door.

Suddenly he halted, his hand only inches from the doorknob.

Where the hell was he going? What was he doing?

He turned slowly and gazed back toward the kitchen. All the strength had left his body, and his arms became heavy and a great weight descended on him. Sherlock returned to the kitchen to find Violet almost as he had left her only seconds before, but the tears had fallen now, and she had crumpled a little.

He was a fucking arsehole! Why did he almost leave?

In three quick strides Sherlock was in front of Violet and had enveloped her in his arms. He thought she would choke out a sob, but she was strangely silent. It was like she was allowing him to hug her, rather than needing to be comforted. But he rubbed her back all the same and murmured, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

What was he sorry for? Almost walking out? Not being here in the first place? Being a possible cause for an organised crime figure visiting and threatening her?

Sherlock had deduced a lot, but even he knew that he shouldn't be over-confident in his own deductions. And the fact that Violet wasn't crying like he thought she should, was cause for concern.

"Why don't we sit down and you can tell me about it?" he said softly.

-o-

Sherlock was pacing. Violet had just ended a call with the studio.

"I tried kick-boxing this morning," she had told them. "It didn't quite work out."

Sherlock had advised Violet that the less she told them, the more it wouldn't sound like a lie.

"Only lies have detail, Violet."

And kick-boxing fit with the kind of injury she had sustained to her face from falling onto the edge of the coffee table after Jake had shoved her away. Kick-boxing injuries of this nature were especially prevalent if she had not being wearing head gear like she was supposed to— _silly girl—_ and her opponent had been wearing shoes, even the soft kind with some kind of padding on the soul.

"You can have the details in your mind," Sherlock had told her, "but don't volunteer any further information unless someone asks you specifically. You're supposed to be embarrassed about your lack of judgement, so it's almost as if you don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock had received his message from Jake's _business associates_ loud and clear. Not that there was much to misunderstand. _Back off!_

 _Boring._

 _Predictable._

That it came via Jake and Violet was probably a more interesting notion. So Jake _was_ connected to Sebastian Moran. But _who else?_ Sherlock thought he ought to talk to his big brother about this development. The elder Holmes had been keeping an eye on Jake Venucci after all.

Jake's message was the first piece of information Violet had given him once they'd sat down to talk. The details of her fight with Jake followed that. And even then, Sherlock had to read between the lines. Jake had barely touched her. She had done most of the hitting. Did that arsehole like that about her?

A few things had clicked into place in Sherlock's mind in regard to Violet. While she was on the phone to the studio, Sherlock began pacing and set about analysing everything he knew about Violet and her past relationship with Jake.

Her anger with Grice Johnson came to the forefront of his mind though. Sherlock always felt that Violet was less upset about the bartender's assault than she was at the missed opportunity for fighting back. He retrieved from his Mind Palace, her reaction upon hearing of her assault, _"I didn't get the opportunity to say 'No,' or knee him in the nuts."_

The thought of her own assault on the bartender, though, had made her physically sick, with her stating, _"I haven't deliberately set out to cause someone that much physical pain before."_ A curious statement, now that Sherlock had analysed it. Did it mean that she had "accidentally" caused someone that much physical pain before?

Violet said she had been upset about Jake's cocaine relapse, which is probably why she had lashed out at him today. She thought he'd been clean for a couple of years now, ever since she had walked out on him. But something sat in the back of Sherlock's mind. He had deliberately not filed the information about her ex-boyfriend's cocaine addiction in Violet's _Boyfriends Who Failed_ Mind Palace file, because at the time he didn't want to acknowledge any similarities between himself and the aforementioned failures. On bringing forth the conversation they'd had when they were staying in Dartmoor, Sherlock recalled Violet finishing his sentence about cocaine's usefulness in _"beating people up,_ " she'd said, before adding, " _He wasn't always like that. I don't know why I said it, when I gave as good as I got._ " That remark was rather telling in hindsight, and Sherlock recalled pondering its meaning at the time.

 _I gave as good as I got_. So she and Jake used to have physical fights, is that it? And Violet wasn't upset today because she was hurt; she was upset because she'd instigated a fight and was ashamed to tell Sherlock about it.

"They're coming over," Violet said, putting her phone down onto the coffee table and interrupting Sherlock's train of thought as he paced.

"Sorry, who?"

"Reps from the studio. The director for this week's scenes, and probably someone from the art department. I think they want to see if they can cover up my... you know."

"Oh," Sherlock responded, stopping in his tracks and scratching his head. Now what was he thinking about? Oh, that's right. His girlfriend getting into punch ups with her ex.

But she liked wrestling with him, Sherlock thought. He taught her single-stick and self-defence. He thought it had all commenced with that flirtatious cushion battle a lifetime ago.

"So did you want to stay?" Violet was asking him. "You can if you like. I don't mind."

"Stay where?" Sherlock asked, shaking his thoughts loose.

"Here. When they come around."

"Which is when?"

"Now?"

"Oh." Of course Sherlock didn't want to stay and hob-nob with entertainment industry types. Did he? Should he? "I'll stay if you want me to stay," he found himself saying, with a sigh. Whoops. Shouldn't have sighed. There was probably too much breath in his words, for Violet furrowed her brow at him.

"No, it's fine," she said quickly. And she turned from him and grabbed the shopping bag he'd left on the armchair earlier. "I'll just put these away."

 _It's fine_ , she'd said. _Fine._ Not fine. Not in the _least bit_ fine. Why did they even have that word in the English language? It was fraught with danger.

Sherlock grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa that he shed earlier when they were just getting comfortable for _the talk._ Slipping it back on, he followed Violet into the kitchen.

"So I'll just..." he began, vaguely trailing off, because he really didn't want to stay.

Violet glanced up, then eyed his jacket critically as she closed the fridge door.

"Where are you going?"

"I might go and see my brother."

"Your brother?" she repeated, with a little too much emotion for Sherlock's liking.

"Ye-es."

Violet smiled grimly.

 _Good God_ , Sherlock thought. _This is going from bad to worse._

"I've got something to tell you, that you really need to pass on to Mycroft."

"What?"

Violet sighed, then fiddled with her fingernails. Sherlock had noted the uneven cut on some of them.

"Jake somehow knew that all the data SOCA had on me had been deleted."

"Jake knew?"

Violet nodded, then added, "And he's noticed that he's also no longer under surveillance."

"He isn't?"

"Didn't you know this?" Violet asked. "Because he seems to think it's related to me. And he mentioned Mycroft by name as the person responsible for looking out for me."

"How could he know this?" Sherlock asked through narrow eyes.

"I don't know. So you should tell Mycroft."

Just then, the intercom buzzed, jolting both Violet and Sherlock back to the here and now.

Sherlock followed Violet out to the living area. She pressed the intercom button, spoke to her studio colleagues and gave them the directions to her flat, then turned to Sherlock as he stood by the door.

"I'll see you later," Sherlock bid her, trying not to notice the disappointment in her eyes.

"Will you be back?"

"Of course," he replied, forcing a smile. He nodded to the suitcase he had taken to Manchester and had deposited by her door earlier, and added, "I'll be staying a few days apparently."

Satisfied that he had brought a smile to Violet's face, even just a small one, he kissed her on one corner of her mouth—the uninjured side. He then left her to her visitors.

 _Jacob Venucci,_ he thought, as he rapidly descended the stairs. The man was becoming a more irritating thorn in his side the longer he and Violet were together. Sherlock had to find a way to get rid of him, and he hated that he had to take Violet's feelings for the man into consideration. Talking to his brother was probably the best way to brainstorm this issue, for Mycroft wouldn't really give a fuck about Violet and her misplaced loyalty. It was the latter that Sherlock hated and would seek advice on. He didn't want the opinion of his brother when it came to his actual relationship with Violet. Sherlock tried to dismiss all previous thoughts he had made on Violet this afternoon. He really didn't want to see his girlfriend in a new light right now.

Sherlock brushed past the two _Regency Road_ employees on the staircase without acknowledging them, so lost was he in his own thoughts.

 _Jacob Venucci,_ he thought again. _I am going to ruin you._

-oOo-


	15. The Most Dangerous Man You've Ever Met

**Chapter 14 –** **The Most Dangerous Man You've Ever Met**

Sherlock's name on Violet's lips ended in a gasp and Sherlock knew he had her. A fitting reward for Violet buying a double bed for them to share in her bedroom at the Brassworks, replacing her pathetic excuse for a single bed. It was the least he could do to thank her for being so thoughtful.

Violet curled up into his side, and he chuckled before pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"Do you still love me?" she whispered.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

His girlfriend remained silent for a few minutes so Sherlock took that opportunity to reach over and retrieve his phone to take it off _Do Not Disturb_. He tutted when he saw the screen.

"What?" Violet sleepily asked.

"Three missed calls from my brother, and... one from Mrs Hudson. _Curious._ "

"What's going on?"

"World War Three, most probably."

Sherlock deposited his phone back onto the sidetable and closed his eyes. What dramas had befallen the rest of the world that once again required the services of Sherlock Holmes? He was in no mood to speak to either his brother or his landlady. He was content to lie next to Violet for a while, now that she seemed to have almost returned to her usual sparkling self. She had been overly-enthusiastic about showing Sherlock her new bed, plus she was returning to work tomorrow. And she was still bubbling with excitement about a rumour she'd heard yesterday.

The bruise on her cheek still shone with a kaleidoscope of colours, but it could easily be concealed with make-up now, and her top lip was healing nicely. Having Monday through Wednesday at home from the studio was initially a tough ask, especially since Violet had the impression that the studio reps suspected it was her new boyfriend who had inflicted the injuries.

Sherlock had remarked on Sunday night, "That erroneous assumption just shows them to be morons. Why do you care what idiots think?"

It hadn't made matters easier when Sherlock had confessed to her the next night that he had barely noticed the studio employees on the stairwell, and that he may have angrily brushed past them because he'd been thinking about Jake Venucci. Violet initially thought Sherlock had said hello to them on his way down, because the make-up director had asked her, "Was that your boyfriend?" indicating the stairs when Violet greeted them at the door to her flat.

"So they think you're aggressive and that I'm covering up for you," Violet had said, and her mood hadn't got any better.

That is, until she received a call on Tuesday midday from an excited Chenoa Burton, her _Regency_ co-star, and unfortunate lover of Stuart Jire, who said there was a rumour going around the studio that Violet was going to be nominated for a TELSA for _Rising New Talent—_ whatever that was, Sherlock had thought at the time. Violet had tried to remain subdued about it—it _was_ only a rumour after all—but Sherlock could detect her underlying excitement.

Violet rolled away from Sherlock, and said, stifling a yawn, "How about tea?"

"Yes, please," he replied, keeping his eyes closed.

"No," Violet protested. "It's your turn. I made it last night."

"Orgasm trumps tea," Sherlock intoned.

Violet gaped for a moment, and then leapt upon her boyfriend. She was completely naked, but Sherlock had remained in his underwear when he decided to lavish Violet with all the attention. Sherlock snapped his eyes open at the sudden intrusion to his peaceful musings.

"Whoever comes last has to make the tea," Violet teased, rising up on her knees and sliding a hand toward the waistband of Sherlock's boxer trunks. "And I don't believe I've finished you off."

"No," Sherlock said abruptly, grabbing Violet's hand and gently redirecting it. "You've said _tea,_ and now that's all I can think about. You've left arousing me far too late."

Violet sat back onto her haunches and pouted.

"Go on," Sherlock said encouragingly, and lightly tapping her thigh. He reached back and grabbed his phone. "I've got a nice old lady to ring back. And speaking to her isn't compatible with having your mouth around my penis."

Violet climbed from Sherlock, saying, "Who said anything about penis? Or mouth?" She left the bed and moved toward the door, still naked. She called back, "I was going to stick a poker up your arse. How about that?"

"Charming," Sherlock murmured, his eyes on his phone screen. They then snapped up to check that Violet was out of sight. Once satisfied, Sherlock returned his phone to the table. He laced his fingers together onto his stomach and closed his eyes again.

 _Quiet contemplation, then a cup of tea. How civilised._

However, his moment of peace was almost immediately interrupted when Violet came striding back into the room.

"Okay," she said breathily, closing the bedroom door. She reached up and grabbed her dressing gown from the hook. "I think I've just let your brother in. He's coming upstairs with quite a few... I don't know... Secret Service guys?" She also retrieved Sherlock's dressing gown for him.

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up in one fluid movement.

"What?" He stood and rounded the bed as Violet threw him his gown, then wrapped her own around herself.

"Say that again?" Sherlock bid her. "No. Don't bother," he said, hurriedly dressing. "I've got it."

Violet opened the bedroom door, and Sherlock said, "Wait." He made light work of tying his sash, while asking Violet, "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm coming too."

"No, you're not. Stay here. You're not dressed."

Violet narrowed her eyes at her boyfriend. "Don't be sexist. You're not dressed either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he made tracks along the passageway with Violet hot on his heels, pulling her hair forward as if that was all that was needed to cover her bruised cheek and split lip.

"What's this about, do you think?" she asked, her voice rising with excitement.

"Violet, shush."

"Do you think it's about the Moran case?"

"Dunno."

"Your brother sounds _really_ posh."

Perhaps it _was_ about the Sebastian Moran case, Sherlock mused, striving to ignore Violet. Or the _Jake Venucci_ case as he preferred to call it. It was the latter's downfall that Sherlock was now aiming for.

His visit to his brother on Sunday night had yielded little. Mycroft hadn't reacted at all to the news of Violet's 'assault', not that Sherlock expected anything more from him. In fact, Sherlock had played down the incident in his retelling because he knew it wouldn't rate at all on Mycroft's list of _Things That Mattered_. His older brother, though, had almost cracked a smile at the news that Jacob Venucci thought that surveillance on him had been called off.

"I'm very glad to hear that," Mycroft had remarked, leaning back into his chair, a smug look of satisfaction just waiting to leap triumphantly from his face if he hadn't always held himself so composed. "The last lot were completely hopeless. Venucci was bringing them cups of coffee, for God's sake. We've safely reassigned those idiots to an outpost in the far north of Scotland."

"So he's still being watched?" Sherlock had asked.

Mycroft's lizard grin had broadened. "Most definitely."

Sherlock had asked if anyone had thought it odd that Jacob Venucci had met up with Violet Hunter, and was disappointed to learn that SOCA surveillance officers weren't to query why Venucci did anything. The fact that he was in Violet's company meant that no surveillance was allowed to be recorded during their 'liaison.'

His older brother had been less than impressed, however, to learn that Venucci had mentioned Mycroft _by name_ as being the man responsible for ordering SOCA to destroy all Violet Hunter-related data. The occupant of a minor position in the British Government had narrowed his eyes at this news.

"Leave it with me," was all he had advised Sherlock. And the Consulting Detective knew that heads were going to roll for that one. Mycroft may even command a special ceremony at the Tower of London for it.

But since Sunday, Sherlock had heard nothing from his older sibling. Three phone calls and now a personal visit—and not even to his residence in Baker Street—was almost certainly cause for raised eyebrows.

The least they could do would be to answer the door not naked. Sherlock may even put the kettle on.

He and Violet pulled up at the front door just as three formal knocks resounded on the wood. Sherlock tutted and glanced toward Violet.

"My brother actually asked one of his minions to knock on the door for him. There's no way he possesses that much vigor in his wrist." The detective shook his head before reaching out and grasping the door handle. He opened the door, glanced at the group of besuited men, and said, "No thanks. I gave at the office."

He made to close the door again, when his long-suffering brother announced, "I don't have time for games, Sherlock. This is of national importance."

Sherlock sighed, and opened the door fully. The Security Service agents ( _not_ Secret _Service agents, Violet!_ ) swept into the room complete with a range of hand-held equipment, and preceded regally by _His Most Pompous Git_ , Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock closed the door behind the group and made an exaggerated gesture of looking at his wrist, which currently did not sport his watch.

"I hope they won't be long, Brother Dear. It's after 9pm, and Violet was about to perform oral sex on me."

Both Mycroft Holmes and Violet Hunter momentarily wore the same shocked expression. Mycroft, however, was quicker at recomposing himself. He took his time in scanning Violet from head to toe, narrowing his eyes only a little on her face.

"Yes," he murmured, then appeared to snap to attention. "Ms Hunter," he said, striding forward and holding out his hand, his mouth widening into a smile, although his eyes had not received the same memo. "How delightful to finally meet you."

Violet slowly returned his handshake, and Sherlock looked on in interest. It always amused him to see how other people reacted to his brother. He appeared to command respect from all around him, except for, of course, his own little brother, and more recently, Doctor John Watson. Still, Sherlock was a little bit disappointed that Violet's first reaction toward Mycroft hadn't been one of extreme violence. Pity.

But small creases had appeared in Violet's brow as she looked up at Mycroft.

"You don't look anything like Sherlock," she remarked.

Sherlock chuckled as Mycroft quirked an imperial eyebrow.

"Yes, Ms Hunter. While it's true Sherlock and I inherited twenty-three chromosomes from both of our parents, giving us a total of forty-six each, we possess a different set of genetic material from which various traits—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock cut in.

The older Holmes brother stiffened, then smiled at Violet. "Yes, well, Sherlock takes after our father in appearance, while I seemed to have inherited our mother's exquisite looks."

Sherlock snorted out a laugh, turning his head away.

"But you do sound like him, a little," Violet quipped, returning Mycroft's smile.

Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes at the pair—Mycroft trying his best to ingratiate himself into Violet's good books, as a result of the guilt that Sherlock, and to a larger extent, their mother, had heaped on Mycroft for breaking up their relationship; and Violet, gently prodding his brother, as if to see what made him tick.

"And I must offer my congratulations," Mycroft said, smiling unctuously, "on your... now what were they called? _Nominations._ "

Violet's eyebrows shot up.

 _"Most Dramatic Talent..._ or..." Mycroft furrowed his brow and reached into his jacket pocket. He retrieved a brown moleskin notebook, opened it to a bookmarked page and read, _''Violet Hunter, Regency Road, nominated for_ _Most Dramatic Scene_ _and_ _Rising New Talent._ Not one, but _two_ nominations _._ "

Violet opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, before saying in a small voice, "The nominations won't be announced until Friday."

"He's just showing off," Sherlock muttered. The detective knew that his brother's little brown notebook was merely a prop that the drama queen used to impress others of his intelligence gathering abilities. In reality, the man could store such things in his head.

"Well _,_ I wish you all the best with the voting," Mycroft said.

"Um..." The actress became distracted by the agents moving around the flat. "What are they doing? This is my dad's place."

Mycroft glanced at one of his agents, who gave him a nod in assurance. However, the British Government official lowered his voice anyway, and replied, "There's a security thre—"

"Sweeping for bugs, Violet," Sherlock said, interrupting his brother. The detective had taken the agent's nod to his brother to mean that this room was bug free. Sherlock directed his gaze to Mycroft and asked, "Why?"

Mycroft drew his lips into a thin line, in perfect synchronisation with the narrowing of his eyes. He replaced his notebook, then reached into another pocket and retrieved two small items. He displayed them on the palm of his hand.

"We found these in your flat this evening. One in the living area behind that abominable _thing_ wearing headphones, and the other in your bedroom attached to the underside of a lamp. Your landlady was most distressed, although she did initially think we were there to confiscate—now what did she call them?—her _herbal soothers_."

It was now Sherlock's turn to harden his expression. He reached out and plucked the items from his brother's hand. He held one up to the light.

Violet moved closer to him. "Are they...?"

" _Fucking bastards_ ," Sherlock said under his breath.

Mycroft readjusted his position with the tip of his umbrella. It was his way of squirming uncomfortably.

"The order to the Crime Agency personnel to deactivate Ms Hunter's file came from the highest authority within SOCA itself," he explained. "Only the person who possessed that level of security could have known that the request originated from my office. As I'm quite confident that the Director General of SOCA is not the informant, I decided to look at whomever else was privy to this information." Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock who had now closed his fist around the bugging devices. "And that only left the two of you."

Sherlock's eyes locked with Violet's.

"And obviously," Mycroft continued, with a sigh, "Ms Hunter is as loyal to you as Redbeard was."

Sherlock glared at his brother for this remark, but Mycroft pretended to remain oblivious.

The older Holmes lamented, "I regret that my biggest security leak is my own little brother. Fortunately, you haven't been given any real state secrets lately with which you can share with your..." Mycroft grimaced at the thought of his next word, "… _girlfriend._ "

Sherlock bowed his head, exhaling deeply, then raked his fingers through his curls.

"We'll step up security surveillance around the toxic waste dump that you call a flat. Both residences, of course, will be regularly swept for monitoring devices."

As if in synchronisation, all of the security officers began leaving each room of the flat, and filing past Violet and the Holmes brothers. They'd obviously been communicating via hidden headsets and looked to be done.

As the last officer exited through the front door, Mycroft said, "Fortunately, it appears this flat has not been infiltrated. In future, all I ask is your cooperation in not making our nation's security matters a part of your _pillow talk_. Ms Hunter," he added with a tiny nod to Violet, then he followed the agents to the stairwell.

Before Sherlock closed the door, he called out to the retreating form of his brother, "At least I have a... _pillow_."

-o-

Violet had remained immobile by the front door with her arms folded in front of her. After Sherlock had closed it on his brother and his security detail, he had irately hurled the surveillance devices across the room, then stood there, scratching his head with one hand, his other hand on his hip. Then he began to pace.

Violet watched Sherlock as he alternately paced and paused. Her own mind was racing, too. Someone had installed bugs in Sherlock's flat. His living room. His bedroom. Audio monitoring only, Sherlock had muttered. In a way, Violet should've been thankful they could only pick up sound. The antics they'd got up to in the bedroom!

"I'll make tea," she said quietly, not caring if Sherlock actually heard her or not. They were _supposed_ to be having tea, not oral sex! Whatever possessed Sherlock to tell his brother otherwise? Watershed hour or not!

Violet went through the motions of brewing a pot. Her body was on automatic pilot as her thoughts returned, as ever, to Jake. As Danny had driven her home on Sunday morning, they had said little. He had apologised—for what, Violet had asked. For not interfering sooner, before her and Jake's argument had got out of hand, he had explained to her. Did Danny think Jake had pushed her into the coffee table on purpose? She'd lost her balance when Jake shoved her off him, that's how she remembered it.

Poor Danny. He always seemed to put himself between her and Jake, and Violet was never sure just which one of them he was protecting. One day, she feared, Jake would be less forgiving of Danny's interference. _I'll end you?_ Was that what she heard Jake threaten Danny with?

When they had pulled up at Frederick's Close by the walkway that gave her access to the Brassworks, she had asked Danny who Jake's business associates were. Jake's right hand had merely shrugged and remained reticent. This gesture alone spoke volumes. Jake was cutting Danny out of the action, of this Violet was sure. And Danny was worried about him. She would need to speak to Dan again later, when the incident wasn't so fresh and raw in their minds.

As she poured the boiled water into the tea pot, Violet's stomach roiled again at the thought of Jake listening in on her and Sherlock making love. Did Jake get to hear the actual surveillance recordings, or had it been done by somebody else and the information that was relevant merely passed on to him?

She shook her thoughts loose once more, and concentrated on getting the tea tray out to the living room and to Sherlock. She found that the detective had retreated to the balcony overlooking the common garden within the centre of the Brassworks. Probably for a hit of nicotine, Violet concluded.

Violet poured herself a cup of tea, then after a few minutes of tormenting herself with her own stupid thoughts again, she poured one for Sherlock and took it out to him. She didn't want to disturb his thought processes, so she left him to it and returned inside. She spent the rest of the evening alternately soaking her fingers in acetone and trying to pick off the acrylic nails, while television screen images flickered, unwatched, in front of her.

Finally, she stuck her head out the door and told Sherlock that she was going to bed because she had to be at the studio by 6am. Sherlock at least gave the impression that he had heard her, and even tilted his head when she planted a kiss on his cheek.

Violet fell into a deep, uneasy sleep, waking only briefly to cuddle into Sherlock when he slid into bed beside her in the early hours.

She murmured, "Who's Redbeard?" but drifted off again before she heard Sherlock's answer, if he did, in fact, answer her.

She woke before he did, and showered, dressed and applied a light layer of foundation to subdue the purples and yellows on her face. Usually she wouldn't bother with make-up, but she didn't want to startle anyone if they bumped into her before she had been tended to by the studio make-up artist.

It was a little before 5:30am and Violet wondered if she should wake Sherlock so she could give him a kiss goodbye. Violet had no idea how long he had been asleep for.

She decided against it, and called a cab for the studio.

It ended up being a strange day. While Violet had been prepared to rehearse and shoot as if it were any other day—albeit a very hectic day, since she had two days in which to film a week's worth of scenes—she did find herself the recipient of strange looks, and whispers, and the participant in stilted, awkward conversations about nothing in particular.

There would be a new rumour circulating the studio by the end of Thursday, of this she was sure: Violet Hunter had been roughed up by her mysterious new boyfriend.

-oOo-


	16. Stop Talking Now

**Chapter 15 – Stop Talking Now**

Sherlock eyed Violet critically as she poured them each a glass of champagne from the bottle that she had brought around to Baker Street with which to celebrate.

"Just the one," she'd said.

So it was official, and the day had arrived—Friday, and the announcement of the TELSA nominations. The pompous arse of a civil servant had been correct about Violet's nominations. Both of them. Violet had sent Sherlock a text from the studio earlier that day, telling him of her nominations and, asking him if she could stay over at his to celebrate with him.

Why did she even have to ask, he'd thought, and then she added that her dad was back in the city for the week and she wanted to avoid seeing him.

Sherlock thought Violet meant one _sip_ of champers, at least that's all he intended to consume of the vile liquid, but Violet kept hers in her hand as she floated around his living area, enthusiastically listing all the other TELSA nominations that _Regency Road_ and its stars had received as Sherlock sat on the sofa.

"So will you accompany me?" she asked finally, her eyes emitting as much sparkle as the golden liquid that was rapidly being drained from her flute.

"To what?" Sherlock asked.

Violet halted in her tracks. "To the TELSAs," she replied, her eyes immediately watering at Sherlock's apparent ignorance.

Sherlock carefully scrutinised his girlfriend. She was far too _emotional_ —bubbly one minute, blubbery the next.

He picked off the signs one by one, then asked, "Have you already participated in celebratory drinks this evening?"

Violet frowned at Sherlock's subject change. "The studio put on champagne for everyone," she replied, shrugging lightly. "I may have had a couple of glasses, then Priyal and Chenoa and I stopped at the pub on the way home." Violet's eyes narrowed a little as she recalled the evening's events. "Although, I think that was a ploy by them to get me to talk about you. I only had two white wines. I told them how wonderful you were, then made my excuses to leave."

"So this is your… fifth."

"Are you counting? Why are you counting? Are you going to turn a lovely evening into a fight?"

"Who's fighting?" Sherlock replied coolly. "I'm simply maintaining a tally. Although..." he began, narrowing his eyes in thought.

"Well, stop it," Violet said petulantly. "We should talk about the TELSAs."

"Alcohol may cause memory impairments the more you drink," Sherlock said, leaning back into the sofa, folding his arms in front of him, and distractedly brushing his lower lip with his knuckle. "We've seen this happen several times before."

"We should get you measured up for a tuxedo."

Violet looked about her for something, while Sherlock continued to eye his girlfriend critically.

"What if you have one or two more glasses of champagne tonight?" he mused.

"Where's my iPad? We should look at some designer outfits for both of us."

Violet found her handbag on the floor by the coffee table and stooped to retrieve it.

"We could run tests to determine at what point you experience a blackout." Sherlock sat up and pulled his laptop across from where it sat on the coffee table. Opening the lid, he murmured to himself, "Now what kind of studies have already been conducted?"

"What do you think of Spencer Hart?" Violet asked, as she made herself comfortable next to Sherlock with her iPad in hand. She swiped at the screen while Sherlock rapidly typed on his computer.

"Of course we haven't recorded precisely when you started drinking tonight, nor measured how much food you'd already consumed."

"Oooh, this one's nice. But we have to match, of course."

"Let's see," Sherlock said, turning his head to study his girlfriend. "How much do you weigh... eight stone, eleven," he muttered before reaching out and cupping one of Violet's breasts. "No, eight stone, _nine_."

"Hey!"

"Your padded bra gives the illusion of extra weight."

"Cut that out."

"So that's..."

"How about this one?" Violet said, thrusting her iPad in front of Sherlock's screen.

"Violet, move! I'm working here."

"What are you doing?" she asked, leaning in to him. "I thought we were choosing you a tuxedo."

"We need to investigate just how efficiently your body metabolises alcohol," Sherlock replied, clicking through several screens.

"What?"

"Although we may have to start again on a different night. There are too many unknowns with tonight's... effort."

"Sherlock."

Violet sat up straighter, her bottom lip thrusting out a bit. She shot her boyfriend daggers in the hope that he'd stop and pay attention to her on the basis of this gesture alone.

He didn't.

"Six or seven standard drinks. What's your estimate for the point at which you experience memory loss?" Sherlock now turned to look at Violet. He didn't like what he saw. "What?"

"Haven't you been listening to me?" she asked, a challenging glare in her eyes and one that Sherlock cared little for.

"No. Why would I? You've been on a drunken ramble for the last five minutes."

Violet narrowed her eyes a lot more, while Sherlock raised his eyebrows in hope.

"On second thoughts," he said, turning back to his computer and gently closing the lid, "why don't we conduct the experiment tonight. Would you like another glass of champagne?"

Violet continued to glare at Sherlock, then she slowly rose from the sofa and carefully closed the cover on her iPad.

Tucking it under her arm, she said, "No. I'm going to bed."

This was an extreme reaction, Sherlock thought. They hadn't even had dinner.

"Would you like me to join you?"

"No," Violet replied, and continuing on her way. She called back, "And I'm going to find someone else to take me to the TELSAs."

Sherlock stood up and scratched his head. That sounded so final, her threat. He supposed he should feel concerned, but what the hell were the TELSAs again?

-o-

With the Television Soap Awards scheduled for the end of the month, Sherlock had plenty of time to meet Violet's demands that he get fitted for a tux. _Plenty of time._

And being the resourceful man that he was, he had easily won back Violet's affection that same night. A quick phone call to John Watson was all that it took just to check a couple of details, and Sherlock entered his bedroom with the suggestion that he go for a fitting at a tailor that could also make his and John's wedding outfits. That way, Sherlock could massacre two boring, dull birds with one stone.

Violet seemed to think that was a fine idea, and she proceeded to be mildly accommodating for the rest of the night, even allowing Sherlock to do unspeakable things to her in the bathtub.

The remainder of the weekend went along similar lines. Violet, although continually sober now, managed to flit between over-enthusiasm for trivial things, and brooding about silent issues. Sherlock assumed these issues were related to Jake Venucci and his connection to major underworld figures, Violet's lack of acting prospects post- _Regency Road_ , and the potential rumours circulating about her assault that had been covered over with her fabrication about kick-boxing. Despite Sherlock's best efforts to insult any small-minded idiot who would believe the latter, Violet still continued to brood on the subject, the issue real or imagined.

Sherlock had double-checked with Violet as to whether they should spend a weekend or at least a day in Birmingham investigating Lauren Myrtle's murder, but the actress remained vague and uncommitted. Finally, she bid him not to worry about it for the time being.

Sherlock's own mood rapidly deteriorated over the weekend with the lack of cases. His brother had advised him to ease off on the probing into Sebastian Moran's business dealings and movements both in London and Manchester. The elder Holmes had told Sherlock that a lull in investigations may give the organised crime figures a false sense of security, especially now that Jacob Venucci believed he was no longer under surveillance. Sherlock had retorted that he had initially been hired by Scotland Yard and not by the pompous git, whereby Mycroft had given Sherlock a look—the look that stated, _I'm the king of the castle._

Sherlock loathed to do nothing, but he spent most of the weekend—when he wasn't tending to Violet's see-sawing emotional needs—scouring newspapers and the internet for signs of humanity being unkind to itself, in mysterious and seemingly unsolvable ways. He had no such luck.

The start of the week brought about a bit of relief for the detective. With Violet returning to work, and establishing her own routine each afternoon of jogging around Regent's Park, Sherlock knew when he could loll about, and when he could annoy Molly Hooper at Bart's for body parts on which to experiment.

By mid-week, Violet seemed to come alive once more, possibly as a result of having coffee with a journalist from a minor celebrity magazine who wanted to do a pre-TELSA piece on her ahead of the official studio publicity releases. This tiny bit of interest in her acting career by the media gave Violet the incentive to phone Jamie Rho-Katten, the casting director for the _Catherine Hilderness_ mini-series—the production in which Violet had failed to secure a role.

Sherlock wondered why a simple phone call to someone in the industry had caused Violet so much angst, and it wasn't until she got off the phone to the woman that Violet explained that her hesitance had a lot to do with not going through the proper channels, namely her talent agent, Polly Stoper. Fortunately, the casting director was wholly supportive of Violet appealing to Sir Henry Masters directly, to request a separate audition with him, since he was both the producer and male lead in the production. Rho-Katten said she would initially speak to Sir Henry on Violet's behalf, telling him of the young actress's still great enthusiasm for the project. As yet, there had been no suitable candidates for the role of Catherine in her formative years. That news alone gave Violet hope.

Violet entered the next weekend so full of energy, she practically moved most of her belongings back upstairs to her old room.

Sherlock found the whole notion mildly amusing, especially since Violet had remarked to him, "Now don't get all excited. I'm not moving back yet," even though it had been over a week since she had stayed at the Brassworks, and more and more of her possessions had made their way over to Baker Street.

Sherlock still had to endure looking at Violet's iPad with her from time to time whenever she saw another male celebrity or model wearing some kind of _different_ tuxedo. He didn't actually have a preference, but he knew at least to make all the correct _agreeable_ noises. And when Violet fixed him with a challenging glare a few times, he was cluey enough to offer a _specific_ comment about the suit jacket in question. Lapels. It wasn't that hard to throw in a comment about lapels, or the vertical lines and the cut, or something. He managed to get by. On pondering further, Sherlock knew that he would look particularly dashing in anything. Violet would get tears in her eyes at the sight of him; of this he was sure.

On the weekend, Violet and her co-stars went to a private showing at a designer's studio, to preview and try on a few formal gowns for the awards ceremony. A tiny seed of panic was planted in Sherlock's Mind Palace Garden of Unease—that the TELSAs were a little bit of a big deal to the rest of the world, and therefore to his girlfriend.

-oOo-


	17. I Prefer to Do My Own Editing

**Chapter 16 - I Prefer To Do My Own Editing**

Violet was in a frenzy. Jamie Rho-Katten had phoned to request the actress record an audition that very afternoon. It had been a week since Violet had made her phone call to the casting director. Sir Henry Masters was in Scotland with the location manager, so he wouldn't be able to see her in person, Rho-Katten had advised her, but he would take a look at a taped audition if the casting director could organise and send it to him as soon as possible.

"What's your problem?" Sherlock had asked as he casually leant against the door-frame of Violet's old room upstairs. The actress was currently tossing clothes onto her bed in a bid to find something suitable for the audition.

"I don't know what to wear."

"What did you wear last time?"

"I don't remember," Violet replied, huffing in frustration. "I think it was a long skirt and some boring old nondescript, inoffensive shirt. I think I've left them at the Brassworks."

"Does it really matter what you wear?" Sherlock asked. "Don't they have people to design costumes and that kind of thing?"

Violet paused in her frantic searching to shoot Sherlock a look. That was unusually perceptive of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he was getting to know her world after all.

"Maybe. I mean, yes. But I need to choose something that won't be distracting or uncomfortable or wildly out of period."

"Here."

Sherlock swiftly plucked two articles of clothing from seemingly random positions on her bed, but the items were coordinated, classically conservative and they fit her okay.

"Wow," she said on an exhale, taking the garments from her boyfriend. He resumed his casual position by the door. "I still don't know how you think so quickly."

"I simply block out all extraneous data. Plus I quietly catalogued everything you'd thrown onto the bed thus far."

A tiny laugh escaped Violet as she shed her dressing gown.

"You're still worried though," Sherlock remarked after a fashion.

Sherlock was being unusually attentive this afternoon, Violet mused as she buttoned up her shirt. He probably felt guilty about spending the last couple of nights studying things under a microscope at Bart's, and not returning home until the early hours.

"I just don't know if my interpretation of Catherine is good enough."

Sherlock hummed agreeably, prompting Violet to continue.

"The director and casting director were happy with my audition, and it was unusual for the director to even be there at that stage of the casting, so I was lucky there. But the casting director has said to try a classical approach this time. I don't know what that means!"

"Okay."

Violet turned to Sherlock, her face broadening into a smile. His brow was furrowed, meaning he either didn't understand, or didn't _want_ to understand what she was talking about. However, he probably wanted to give the impression of being supportive.

So Violet continued anyway. It felt good to voice her concerns in this way. Now she knew why Sherlock sometimes deduced out loud, whether or not anybody else could follow.

"Ursula Aldman is playing the main role of Catherine," Violet explained as she began brushing her hair. "And she has a very particular way of carrying herself, so… I don't know. She's played so many parts in period pieces in her early years. Have a look on YouTube if you like. There's a complete compilation."

Sherlock made agreeable noises again and pushed off from the door frame, turning to leave. Violet suspected she had probably given him a Get Out of Jail Free card from listening to her trite.

"Oh, Sherlock. Can you just tidy up a bit?"

Sherlock paused on the landing for a couple of seconds without turning around and then continued on downstairs. Violet hoped he was going to be okay with this. She had phoned Spencer, her actor friend, to help her shoot the audition tape, and they decided that the scene Rho-Katten had chosen for her would be best shot in front of the fireplace in Sherlock's living room.

"I'm bringing someone to do the line-reading with you," Spencer had added in a follow-up phone call a few minutes later.

Violet had just assumed Spence would read opposite her, being an actor himself, but he had chuckled and said he'd operate the camera. Violet had hoped it wasn't going to be Alice. The pair hadn't seen each other since Violet had moved out. She feared this may be some scheme by the well-meaning Spencer to reconcile the two. Surely Spencer wouldn't be that insensitive. This role was important to her, and she doubted Alice would see it that way. And besides, the role opposite her was Mr Milverton, to be played by Sir Henry, and therefore his dialogue was full of stuffy old Victorian circumlocutions. She couldn't imagine Alice getting her tongue around those gems.

Violet came downstairs to find that Sherlock had done a fairly decent job of tidying up the living area. She could actually see part of the table top, and the scattering of sheet music that had fallen from a shelf two days ago had been neatly stacked up in front of the window.

Sherlock's laptop was open on the table, and Violet could see that he had finished watching Ursula Aldman on YouTube. Wonders would never cease!

But the improvement in the state of the room and her boyfriend's uncharacteristic interest in her audition did little to calm Violet's nerves. She straightened the ornaments and collections on the mantelpiece that didn't need straightening, and moved the Union Jack cushion from her armchair to Sherlock's, then back again.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked her, crossing her path holding a jar containing dubious contents in one hand.

"Yes, I'm just… distracted. What's that?"

"Oh, this." Sherlock held up the jar so that it caught the light. "I accidentally left it in the microwave a few days ago. Best not open the lid now."

"Are they… are they… _eyeballs_?"

"Bovine. From a butcher's shop. Molly was fresh out of… Well, I didn't want to leave them in the microwave in case someone discovered them."

"You didn't have to relocate them _now_ ," Violet remarked, her voice rising in a panic. "Who's going to open the microwave?"

"Well, I don't know," Sherlock said, shrugging. "People bring pies and tarts around, don't they. _Just bung it in the microwave. We'll eat it warm_ ," he added, in an accent that was not his own. Violet suspected that it was John Watson's.

"What?" she asked.

"How was I to know that John was going to bring home some bedroom candidate for _afters_ and a quick shag. Any woman who's going to make a fuss about a fresh human heart minding its own business in the mic—"

Violet was doing her best not to look horrified.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, "I'll just move it somewhere else until I can dispose of it properly."

Violet thought it best if she just left Sherlock to it. She retreated to the back of the kitchen and along the passage so she could double-check she hadn't left her underwear lying around on the bathroom floor.

"I don't know why you're going to so much trouble," Sherlock remarked once Violet had returned to the living room to find her boyfriend hiding the jar of cow eyes behind a framed collection of insects. "You used to live with Spencer. Surely he already knows how slovenly you are."

Violet froze, and slowly clenched her fists. Sherlock still had his back to her while he changed the position of the jar several times. She breathed in deeply, and decided now was not the time to confront Sherlock about his insensitive comments.

She was just filling the kettle when the doorbell rang. Violet heard Mrs Hudson call out that she had it, but the actress hovered on the landing at the top of the stairs anyway. She still wondered who Spencer was bringing, and she heard the landlady gasp and say, "Oh!"

Sherlock came up behind her and said, "She has a thing for your friend. Doesn't know he's gay though. This should be interesting."

Violet fiercely shushed Sherlock, and ushered him back into the living room.

Spencer appeared at the top of the stairs first, carrying a tripod and a camera bag.

"Goodness," Violet said, laughing. "You actually came bearing gifts. I thought we were going to shoot it on my phone."

Spencer chuckled lightly. "This movie business—it's a bit of a hobby of mine." He bent a little to brush Violet's cheek with a kiss. As he moved aside he added, "And I don't need to introduce this hanger-on, do I?"

Violet froze at the sight of Spencer's 'actor friend' on the stairs. The man gifted her with one of his world famous smiles, which lit up screens and caused women all around the globe to spontaneously ovulate.

"Hope you don't mind me gate-crashing your audition," he said in his customary humble way.

"Oh, it's fine," Violet replied in a distant, strained voice that was not her own. "Thanks for giving up your afternoon for me. Come through."

She gestured through to the living room, allowing the actors to enter before her. Violet caught sight of Mrs Hudson, in the middle of the stairs as she heard Spence introducing the movie actor to Sherlock. The landlady's expression mirrored Violet's own, she thought.

"Mrs Hudson, by any chance would you have some biscuits?"

Mrs Hudson replied in a voice hoarse with emotion, "I'll just check, love."

Violet drew in a calming breath. _Bloody Spencer_ , she thought. And _now_ she was a bundle of nerves.

-o-

Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling when he heard Violet's over-enthusiastic laughter as he filled the teapot with water from the kettle. Just what was wrong with the females in Baker Street today? Violet was acting all giggly and school-girly, and Mrs Hudson was a catatonic zombie. Actually, that was an improvement.

What was the big deal with this other actor Spencer had brought along? Violet was an actor, and so was her friend. Why did this particular man have some strange effect on his girlfriend? Weren't they all in the same industry? A bunch of pretentious toffs, Violet included, some of the time. Sherlock was a bit sorry to think this about his girlfriend, but it was true.

Mrs Hudson's cackle rose above the rest of them.

 _God give me strength_ , Sherlock thought, scowling at the closed sliding doors between the kitchen and the living room. A white sheet had been wedged at the top of the doors on the other side to reflect light back onto the armchairs from the windows. Violet and her 'crew' were setting up the equipment and that actor whose name Sherlock had immediately forgotten the moment he heard it was doing impressions of other actors and it was all raucously entertaining. Apparently.

Mrs Hudson bustled into the kitchen through the door from the landing, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

"Are you all right, love?" she asked, critically eyeing the detective's tea preparations, then proceeding to heap extra sugar into the sugar bowl.

"It's full enough, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh," the landlady said, standing back and placing a hand presumably over her heart. _A little to the left, Mrs Hudson._ "If I were thirty years younger—"

"You'd be old enough to be his much older sister," Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock finished piling cups and saucers onto the tea tray and turned to his landlady.

"I fail to see what all the fuss is about."

Mrs Hudson shrugged, then opened the cutlery drawer in front of her. Retrieving a handful of teaspoons, she said, "You wouldn't know because you don't watch movies."

"How would that change anything?"

"Timothy Killaney is a famous and talented actor," the older woman explained, waving the teaspoons pointedly at Sherlock. "Not just here in Britain. He's made it in Hollywood, you know. In _America_."

She turned to place the spoons onto the tray as Sherlock muttered, "So why isn't he _in_ America?"

Mrs Hudson grasped the handles of the tea tray. Picking it up, she said, laughing lightly, "Ooh, I think I see a bit of the green-eyed monster."

"What are you rabbiting on about now?" Sherlock asked, as the landlady glided past him with the tray and began to hum.

Scowling, Sherlock leant back against the kitchen counter. He decided to stay put for the moment when he saw Violet making her way toward him, and thanking the landlady as she passed her on the landing. Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and waited for his girlfriend to lavish him with some attention.

"Are you okay?" she asked, narrowing the gap between them and snaking her arms around his waist.

"I'm fine. Have you finished rehearsing?"

"Yes! We'll get the camera rolling after a cuppa. Are you going to join us?"

"Perhaps. Do you want me to join you?"

"Of course I do. I'd love you to watch me work. I get to see you at work all the time."

"I have seen you work. I came to your play, several times, and I've seen every episode of _Regency Road_ that you've been in since before we got back together."

"Yes, I know, but they're the end result. I want you to see the whole process."

Sherlock gave a tiny shrug and said, "If you'd like me to."

Violet huffed a small laugh, then pressed her lips to Sherlock's pout. She was able to entice a smile out of him before they joined the others in the living room.

Mrs Hudson was seated comfortably on the sofa between the two male actors, and much to Sherlock's annoyance, she seemed to have found her voice. Sherlock insisted that Violet take the armchair by the door, while he grabbed a chair from the living room table.

"You're going to join us, good man," Timothy Killaney said to Sherlock in the small moment of silence when Mrs Hudson had paused to sip her tea.

Killaney was able to engage Sherlock in a brief conversation about where his cases came from, but Mrs Hudson interrupted with her own specific examples of how Sherlock's cases affected the maintenance and upkeep of her flat. Fortunately for Sherlock, the tea break was cut short as Violet was keen to film her scene after talking to Spence about the direction the casting director had given her about trying a 'classical' approach.

After the actors had crossed the room, Sherlock took a seat on the sofa beside Mrs Hudson and poured himself and the landlady a second cup of tea. He successfully managed to shush her once and for all, then proceeded to check his phone for emails as Violet, Spencer and Timothy discussed camera angles and lighting.

Sherlock had seen them conducting a read-through earlier with Violet and Timothy sitting in the armchairs across from one another. When Violet stood to discuss what gestures and facial expressions she should use, Sherlock realised that their craft was, in a way, the opposite of what he did. The detective would observe people's physicalities, their expressions and gestures, and then deduce their motives from them. What Violet and her friends were doing was the reverse—they were given the characters' actions and motives and were trying to apply a physical and verbal presence to suit. Perhaps this acting lark had some relevance after all?

-o-

Violet silently watched the footage on Spence's camera. This was her third full take.

"No, it's not right," she said. "I think I move my hands too much."

"It may help if I glared at you while you're speaking," Killaney suggested.

This idea brought a fresh round of laughter from Violet as she was reminded of Timothy's eerily accurate impression of Sir Henry Masters. She was feeling nervous now with the pressure of getting it right, and no longer as a result of being in Timothy Killaney's presence, as much as she respected the man. Laughing was the only way to alleviate her stress. She'd glance over to Sherlock now and again, to find that he would be invariably frowning at something on his phone. She didn't blame him really. He must be getting bored, she thought.

They had cut recording so many times over the last half hour. Sometimes Killaney would call it, if he had looked up to make eye contact with Violet as he was delivering his lines, then forget his place on the sides and say another bit of dialogue that wasn't in the correct sequence. Other times Violet would drop her head, or swear when she knew she'd spoken the wrong lines. But the next time shooting was disrupted was when a loud, "No! Cut!" emanated from the back of the living room.

Violet's jaw dropped and her eyes widened as her boyfriend rose from the sofa and strode toward them.

"Sherlock..." she began.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "You're just not getting it, are you?"

"Sherlock, what are you—"

"That woman," Sherlock said, pointing toward his laptop that was still open on the living room table, "would never use her hands like that. They fly up to her throat the minute she says something she doesn't want to."

"Um, Sher—"

"It's a subconscious gesture, as if she's trying to strangle the lie before it comes out." Sherlock moved toward the table, and pressed play on the YouTube clip containing Ursula Aldman's most dramatic scenes recorded early on in her career. He then forwarded through the playback, until he reached a particular scene. Spencer and Timothy turned to watch the clip as Violet approached the table, her eyes also on the computer screen. "There," Sherlock said, pausing the playback. "Do you see it?"

"Brilliant," Spencer murmured.

"That's exactly right," Timothy added.

"And here," Sherlock continued, finding another example from a completely different film.

Violet was still gobsmacked. The message she was getting was at odds with the messenger conveying it. Although, why should she be surprised by Sherlock's accurate observations?

"Okay," she replied faintly.

"Let's go again," Spencer said, enthusiastically.

This time, Sherlock stood to the left of Spence and the camera, as Killaney stood on the right to deliver his lines. Violet attempted the dialogue again, getting all the way to the end of the scene, but feeling an underlying unease as her boyfriend watched her with his arms folded in front of him and his eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

"Mmm, an improvement. But you can do better," he said.

Violet thought she'd done brilliantly.

Spencer gave her a warm smile. "One more time," he said, then added with a sly smirk, "This is the martini shot."

Timothy Killaney added, "Do we have any notes?" The actor turned to look pointedly at Sherlock. Violet raised her eyebrows at her new director.

"Catherine doesn't believe her own lie," Sherlock answered without hesitation to Violet. "And that is her undoing. Mr Milverton can see right through her, which makes that line the most pivotal moment in the entire scene. Say it again, and falter right before the end. Rub your throat if it helps."

They ran through the scene again—a definite improvement this time. At Spencer's, " _And... cut!_ " Killaney clapped, prompting Mrs Hudson to join in from the stalls. Even Sherlock managed a tiny smile from one corner of his mouth. Spencer gave the actress a hug and they all gathered around the camera to watch the playback on the LCD panel. Timothy Killaney made room for a pretty chuffed landlady. When Sherlock stood behind Violet, the actress reached her hand back and threaded her fingers through her boyfriend's. Sherlock gave Violet's hand a gentle squeeze in response.

"Okay, my phone's been buzzing," Sherlock said in a low voice to Violet. "I have to go."

Violet turned around to face Sherlock as Mrs Hudson launched into a lengthy narrative directed to the patient young men about how Violet's scene reminded her of a movie she'd seen shot in Florida.

"Do you have to?" Violet whispered to Sherlock.

"Scotland Yard. Lestrade's been texting me for the last twelve minutes."

Violet reluctantly turned to her film crew and announced, "Sherlock's just leaving."

Violet was once again grateful that Sherlock shook hands with her actor friends, and made polite remarks in response to their compliments. It filled her with hope that he may do okay at the TELSAs in amongst the rest of the industry.

As the detective made to leave, Spencer called out, "Oh, will we see you at my party?"

Sherlock momentarily looked confused before Violet rushed in with, "I haven't asked Sherlock yet, but we'll try..." She gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, before the detective gave the same back to Spencer.

After he grabbed his coat and scarf, Violet followed Sherlock to the landing where she could give him the proper farewell that he deserved, but probably wouldn't want to receive in front of an audience, industry types or not.

She wound her arms around Sherlock's neck. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?"

"For directing me. I can't believe you did that."

"It wasn't anything really. You were almost there yourself once you realised that you could simply play the part of Catherine Hilderness as Ms Aldman herself would."

"But _you_ directed _me._ "

Sherlock brought his eyes to focus on his girlfriend. He said, in sinfully low register, "And that turns you on?"

A sly grin played around Violet's mouth and her eyes glittered with unladylike intentions. "Yes," she whispered.

"That doesn't bode well for your future roles. I'll be looking into all your directors' credentials from now on."

Violet laughed lightly then pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips. With her mouth hovering over his, she murmured, "I'll deal with your cleverness later."

Sherlock furrowed his brow though, as if his thoughts were now elsewhere. "And... Spence's party?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry about that," Violet replied, smiling sheepishly and drawing back a little. "I meant to ask you. It's this weekend—his 30th. Will you come with me? It's at a club, and it's all hush-hush, so no paparazzi. It'll be like our first social engagement as a couple. But since it's discreet, nobody will say anything."

"Perhaps. Unless I have a case."

"Okay," Violet replied resignedly. "I really want to go, though." Then she lowered her voice to an even more confidential pitch. "I think Spencer's secret boyfriend might be going."

Small creases appeared between Sherlock's brows again. "Spencer's... secret..." he repeated.

"Boyfriend. Yes. He never talks about him, which is unusual for Spence. He used to always go on about his partners, and we met the last one, who turned out to be an arsehole, by the way..."

"But..."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered toward his living room, where he could hear Mrs Hudson nattering away, in between polite laughter by the two male actors.

"He's... in there."

"Who?"

"Spencer's boyfriend."

Violet chuckled lightly. "No, they're just mates. They met when they shot a mini-series together. _Hibbert and Platt_. It'll be premiering soon on BBC1. We should watch..." Violet's chatter died away as soon as she took in Sherlock's patiently raised eyebrows. "But..." Violet knew that look of Sherlock's. It meant he would silently wait until she was able to follow his reasoning for a deduction he'd made. "He's..." And she _was_ catching on. The thought had taken root, but her mind failed to acknowledge it. "Sherlock." Her boyfriend continued to fix her with a curious look. Violet furiously mouthed the words, " _Timothy Killaney isn't gay!"_

Sherlock drew in a patient breath. "Okay," he said, his voice at a normal volume. "I really have to go. I'll leave you to your deductions."

"But, Sherlock!" Violet dropped her arms from around the detective before he made for the stairs.

Sherlock grinned broadly at Violet, and then rapidly descended. Violet continued to stare after him, willing him to come back and tell her he was joking. _Timothy Killaney_ wasn't _gay._ She'd seen him in photos, at film premieres on the red carpet and entering events and things with beautiful, unidentified model/actresses on his arm.

 _He wasn't!_

Sherlock paused and quickly glanced up at Violet. He said, "By the way, the audition? You nailed it!" He gave her a quick wink, and then disappeared around the corner.

-o0o-

 **A/N:** I hope you enjoyed these happier times. Things are looking up for Violet and Sherlock. I personally think that Sherlock would make a rather impatient and unforgiving, though insightful, director. Perhaps he shouldn't give up his day job.

Just a side note: Timothy Killaney is not based on our favourite Sherlock actor. In my mind, he's based on that other British actor. You know the one :)

Thanks again to the ladies in the _Mrs Hudson's Kitchen_ forum who continually and patiently answer my Brit-related questions, most notably _thedragonaunt. x_


	18. Interesting Thing, A Tuxedo

**Chapter 17 – Interesting Thing, a Tuxedo**

Sherlock cared little for the not-so-subtle look of triumph on his best friend's face. It was the detective's idea to book in for a tuxedo fitting, not the prospective groom's. Well, yes, Sherlock had been repeatedly reminded by his girlfriend, but John Watson had absolutely no right to take credit for being the one to get Sherlock Holmes into a tailor's studio on Mayfair's Savile Row.

Once they were firmly installed inside the studio of Trevor & Vernet, however, it amused Sherlock to see the colour leech from John's face. Sherlock Holmes was in his element, while John Watson was clearly out of his.

The groom-to-be had originally wanted to hire morning suits for his wedding, and the thought filled Sherlock with a quiet horror. _Hiring_ suits! Sherlock Holmes in an ill-fitting _pre-worn_ suit! And before John could suggest purchasing ready-to-wear outfits, the best man had offered to pay for made-to-measure suits—not quite bespoke. John's eyes bulged when he was enlightened about the cost of the latter. The suits would be a special gift for the groom. It would spare Sherlock the distasteful task of thinking of a present for John anyway. While Sherlock was at the studio, he would also order a bespoke dinner suit to wear to this ridiculous awards thing for Violet. Sherlock was well-known by the staff, who treated the pair like royalty, thus taking the ex-army captain even further out of his comfort zone.

John Watson was set upon and cooed around. To add to the doctor's discomfort, he was referred to, on more than one occasion, as Mr Holmes's "partner." Inwardly, Sherlock would chuckle; outwardly, the detective would assume a stony and unaffected demeanour. It had been this way in all the years he had known John Watson. Sherlock would appear oblivious to the comments, while his flatmate, over the years, would continually cough and splutter in exasperation that he was "not his date," "no, we're not together," or even to state boldly, "I'm not gay." Sherlock didn't know why it bothered John so much. This erroneous assumption only highlighted other people's inability to deduce whether or not two people were in a romantic relationship.

"You know you could say something now and again," John said as an aside when they were left alone for a moment.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in a bored fashion.

"What's the worst they could think?" the detective challenged his former flatmate.

"That we're getting sized up for wedding outfits because we're marrying each other."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock replied. "I'd never choose to wear exactly the same outfit as my partner."

John clenched his fists, and tried hard not to throttle Sherlock. It was just like old times.

Finally, John was put out of his misery when the Consulting Detective dismissed him. They had chosen their suits, and the head cutter, together with an assistant, had taken the doctor's measurements for the alterations—thirty-five different measurements, John was horrified to experience.

Sherlock's measurements were already stored in the client book, of which there were numerous volumes. His existing paper patterns would be copied and modified according to the dinner suit design Sherlock would choose in consultation with the head cutter. Since John had now exited the studio, Sherlock needed to get on with choosing the cloth, style and cut of his tailored suit for the TELSAs, and for that, he would be afforded the luxury of a consultancy in the salon's VIP private area known as The Cave.

The premises of Sherlock's Savile Row tailor were formerly a bank, and their exclusive fitting area had once been the bank's vault. Access to The Cave was via a secret panel in a marble wall at the back of the salon. The VIP would descend a spiral staircase into a set of rooms— the Bespoke Fitting Studios, and a separate area for displaying and choosing accessories, such as handmade silk ties, elegant pocket squares and slim-line designer watches.

Sherlock Holmes had been treated like a VIP at Trevor & Vernet for several years—since its inception, in fact. He long ago had shunned his brother's tailor, the same establishment used by royalty apparently. Sherlock's relationship with Trevor & Vernet heralded back to the years he lived in Montague Street. He had helped the then new bespoke couturier, Victor Trevor, escape the clutches of a particularly mercenary and overbearing father, who had wanted the young man to follow him into the banking industry. Sherlock exposed the older Mr Trevor for his fraudulent dealings.

Not many people knew that Sherlock Holmes had contributed to the décor in The Cave, shooting bullet holes in the wood panelling when Victor longed for the spy thriller look. Sherlock may have been high on cocaine at the time he enthusiastically lent his marksmanship skills to Savile Row's hottest newcomer. And no one at all, apart from Sherlock and Victor, were privy to the knowledge that Victor Trevor's silent financial partner, Altamont Vernet, was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

Victor usually tended to Sherlock's tailoring needs personally, with the minimum of fuss. Today, though, Victor appeared unusually flustered. Sherlock knew the reason why, but didn't let on.

Eventually Victor said, "I'm terribly sorry, Sherlock, but we're in a bit of a pickle today. You see one of those actor fellows has been double-booked into your time-slot. Some premiere thing, you see. They never think to make their appointments—"

"It's fine," Sherlock cut in, knowing full well the identity of the _actor fellow_. The detective regarded his reflection in the full length mirror. He turned to the side to scrutinise the cut of the dinner jacket he decided to try on while he waited for his pot of tea to brew. Long gone were the days of whiskey and a line of coke to accompany a fitting.

Victor cleared his throat and hovered still.

"He may be bringing his actress friend," the designer explained, "the one he used to live with." Victor accompanied his explanation with a barely stifled eyeroll. "But don't worry, old man. I can have _Duncan_ fit him out in the accessories room."

"No need. Here is fine," Sherlock intoned, shrugging off the jacket. As well as being his tailor, business partner and the sometime supplier of cocaine, Victor Trevor knew a lot of gossip about almost anyone who was anyone. He didn't hesitate to regale Sherlock Holmes with all he knew. Usually this information would wash over Sherlock, but over the years a snippet here and there had proven useful on more than one case. Sherlock wondered what Victor would tell the detective about Spencer Munro and Violet Hunter.

But no information was forth-coming today. Obviously Victor was swamped with too many orders. With a flutter of hands, the designer finally left the detective alone. Sherlock drew his phone out of his trouser pocket and swiftly sent a text to his girlfriend.

 _Are you here yet? —SH_

Violet's reply was almost instantaneous.

 _Yes where r u_

Sherlock tutted, a knot in his stomach forming at the abbreviations in Violet's text.

 _Downstairs_ , he responded. _I'll see you shortly then —SH_

 _What stairs?_ came Violet's reply.

Sherlock returned the phone to his pocket. Violet would find out soon enough, he thought. _And now back to these jackets with the hand-sewn sleeves._

Sherlock had just made up his mind about having side vents instead of a central vent in the back of the bespoke jacket, when the peace and tranquillity of the place was disturbed by the young woman who was very adept at intruding on Sherlock's solitude.

"Crap! It's colder down here."

Violet's boots were visible on the staircase first, before the rest of her came into view. She was followed closely by Spence. Victor Trevor brought up the rear, his face awash with worry.

"Hiya!" she said, upon eyeing Sherlock. Violet held out a hand as she strode confidently toward him. Behind her, Victor's chest expanded as if he were about to have a heart-attack. "Violet Hunter," Violet continued, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective replied amiably, closing his hand over the soap actress's. He'd thoroughly punish her later, for saying 'Hiya' like her friend Mandi frequently did; Violet knew very well that this Northern way of greeting really grated on him.

"Spence Munro," said Violet's actor friend.

Sherlock returned Spence's handshake as well, while Victor opened and closed his mouth uselessly. It appeared the man was disappointed that he had failed to circumvent the actors' intrusion on his most valued client's time. The Consulting Detective was meant to be left alone to peruse the grand design book in quiet solitude.

"Not _the_ Sherlock Holmes, the private detective?" Violet asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Sherlock inwardly groaned. Violet was milking this introduction thing a bit.

He kept an impassive expression as he corrected her with, " _Consulting_ detective." He turned back to the designer's book, effectively dismissing the disruptive entertainment business types.

"Oh, er, _Mister Duncan_ ," Victor said from behind Sherlock. Victor's second-in-charge had appeared as if out of nowhere.

Sherlock knew by the unspoken words that hung heavily in the air that _Mr Duncan_ had received Victor Trevor's evil eye. Victor silently ordered the employee to attend to the needs of Spencer Munro, so that the unruly actors would leave the precious Mr Holmes unmolested.

While Duncan was directing Spence and Violet to a corner lounge and taking their orders for beverages, Victor gently lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he passed by the detective and said, "I'll bring you your tea now."

Duncan also hastened away, leaving the three clients alone together in The Cave. As Sherlock expected, Violet sidled up to him at the workbench. He kept his eyes on the pages of designer tuxedos.

"You were so rude," Violet said in a low voice, and wrapped her arms around one of Sherlock's.

"Go away."

"Ooh these are lovely. Which one have you chosen?"

Sherlock turned back a page and said, "Slim-line, single-breasted, tailored peak lapel, side vents..."

"I think you'll look handsome in anything," Violet gushed, hugging into his arm.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth extended into a smile. "My thoughts exactly," he said.

"But you forgot to take this before you left this morning." Violet dropped a swatch of fabric onto the counter-top. "We can't clash, remember. It should match your pocket square."

"I've already memorised the shade and texture, Violet."

"But what you _think_ you remember may not be—"

"This is _me_ we're talking about."

Violet withdrew the fabric sample. "I suppose," she said reluctantly, before scrunching up the material and stuffing it into Sherlock's trouser pocket anyway. "But keep it just in case."

Sherlock exhaled noisily and turned to his girlfriend. Small creases appeared between his brows.

"I _am_ carefully noting just how many times you annoy me in here."

Violet's face lit up as if Sherlock had just made all sorts of promises regarding their evening together later. In fact, the promises were sort of implied in his scolding. They both knew that.

The actress planted a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth, then quickly wiped off the smudge of lipstick. The detective continued to scowl down at her. Thankfully, Violet left him alone, turning to peruse a scarlet shirt just as Mr Duncan and Victor returned with tea trays.

Victor cast a concerned eye at Violet Hunter's close proximity to the detective and was visibly relieved when Violet drifted back to Spence's corner.

Sherlock carried the design book to his lounge area, while Victor took a seat across from him and proceeded to pour their tea. This was their usual routine, as usual as it could be given that Sherlock only felt a need to visit the studio once every one or two years these days. And many years ago part of his routine included a trip to the bathroom with a wrap of cocaine. They would pore over the design book together while Trevor made random comments about people of note. In those days, it was less about getting a new outfit and more to do with escaping the world above and slowly getting high in a place his brother knew nothing about. A bolt hole of sorts.

When loud laughter burst forth from Violet and Spence's corner, Victor leant closer to Sherlock, dropped his voice and said, "They lived together for a while, but she moved out when she found out he was gay. Everybody in the industry knows he is. How she didn't is anyone's guess. I suppose they're the best of friends now."

Sherlock smiled ruefully, and glanced over in Violet's direction. "Mmm," he hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder if she's seeing anyone else at the moment."

Victor's jaw dropped, and he gave Sherlock a small tap on the back of his hand. "Oh you are _such_ a scoundrel!"

Sherlock took a sip of tea. Of course he was a scoundrel. As far as Victor Trevor had assumed, Sherlock and John were organising their special day, but the serial sleaze now had his eye on a TV actress. Sherlock knew Victor Trevor had always thought the detective was a switch-hitter. Victor had been one of the privileged few who had known all about Sherlock's Thursday night dalliances. In fact, the designer could probably take credit for Sherlock's successes, if he only knew that Sherlock's prop to remind him not to be himself had been the black coat originally designed and constructed in this studio.

Sherlock thought he at least owed it to his couturier to give the man a hint of a new scandal, given Victor would eventually see photos of Sherlock Holmes, wearing a Trevor & Vernet tuxedo, escorting Violet Hunter to the Television Soap Awards next week.

When Sherlock was in one of the change rooms, about to try on a pair of trousers, he heard a squeal of delight from Violet, followed by loud exclamations by Spencer. Sherlock rolled his eyes and draped his own trousers over the top of the cubicle. He was about to don a second pair when the curtain parted and Violet burst into the tiny space. She reached for him, latching onto his shirt.

"Violet!"

"Sherlock!"

"Oh!" exclaimed a stunned Victor, who had been getting shirts ready for the detective when Violet had brushed past him. "You're not permitted—"

"Just give us one minute," Violet said to the tailor, raising an index finger to him.

"It's fine," Sherlock added in defeat to Trevor. He closed the curtain on the man. "You're ruining our cover," he said in a harsh whisper to his girlfriend. Violet was supposed to surreptitiously view Sherlock's final design choice, not hang out in the change room with him.

But Violet's expression was bright and eager, and the detective knew his words would have no effect.

"I got the part!" she said, barely containing her excitement.

"What?"

" _Catherine Hilderness_. My agent just phoned. Sherlock!"

"Oh."

"I got the part!"

Violet threw her arms around Sherlock's neck, her whole body trembling against him. Sherlock sighed and returned her embrace.

"That's... good," he said, unenthusiastically patting her back. "But you know you've just blown our cover."

"I don't care," Violet said drawing back. "I won the role. _You_ won me the role." She planted a soft kiss onto Sherlock's lips. "Because you're wonderful."

"I know."

Violet kept showering Sherlock with kisses until he had to pry her from him and hold her at arm's length.

"Okay, time and place and all that," he said.

"Aren't you proud of me?"

Having pride in someone else's efforts seemed like an unfamiliar concept to Sherlock.

"I don't know. Am I? Probably, maybe."

"Sherlock," she said, forcing her way back into his embrace.

"I have a reputation to maintain," he said, scowling, "and you're ruining it. We can celebrate later, in private."

"What reputation? Oh, the one where Mr Trevor thinks—no, _hopes_ —that you're bi?"

Sherlock tutted, immediately regretting having shared information with Violet about the design studio and its proprietor earlier that day. Not so much about the identity of Altamont Vernet though. He'd surprise her with that snippet another day.

Violet chuckled, then said, "I don't want to have sex with you right now anyway."

"Thank God for that."

"Just kiss me properly to congratulate me, then I'll leave."

That he could do. Sherlock bowed his head and gently cupped Violet's face in one hand.

"Congratulations," he said warmly, before he took her mouth and sampled, slowly stirring her needs as he drew her in tightly. He broke the kiss before Violet could emit her soft hums of delight. Hearing such sounds of arousal would be his own undoing.

"We'll continue this at home then," she whispered against his lips.

Sherlock drew back fully and furrowed his brow at Violet. "You really are very needy."

Violet laughed lightly, planted a quick kiss on Sherlock lips once more, then left him in peace.

When Victor Trevor strode over to the change-rooms, stammering out an apology, Sherlock said, "Oh, don't worry about it. I have that effect on women."

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

You may recognise the name Victor Trevor. I've borrowed from ACD canon again. In the adventure, 'The Gloria Scott', Holmes says, "You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?... He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college."

Also Altamont is a name Sherlock Holmes assumes in 'His Last Bow'. Vernet, comes from 'The Greek Interpreter' where Holmes tells Watson, "...my grandmother, who was the sister of Vernet, the French artist." I love Sherlock assuming other identities. I wish he would do that more often in the show. And no, I don't mean to imply that Sherlock is a fashion designer! He just helped with the initial start-up fund and this would provide another source of income for him for those times he's just lolling about on the sofa.

Finally, there actually is/was a Savile Row designer who has a basement fitting area, complete with bullet holes! (Although they may be in receivership now...) Anyone heard of Spencer Hart? [chuckle]


	19. He's Clueing for Looks

**Chapter 18 – He's Clueing for Looks**

For one tiny moment, Violet felt a pang of guilt over what she'd done. When Sherlock turned around, bringing his scowl with him, Violet immediately dismissed any notion of culpability. Her eyes widened, her pulse rate accelerated and she took a step toward her boyfriend.

"Don't you dare," Sherlock said, his eyes flashing a warning as he fastened the metal button at the top of the fly.

Violet was unable to hide her excitement, only adding to Sherlock's disdain for her request. If he was so annoyed by her expression, she thought, he could turn his back to her again. That wouldn't be so bad. And Sherlock did, eyeing himself and Violet's reflection behind him in his full-length mirror.

"I can see you, you know," he murmured, tugging irritably at the waistband.

"Just one tiny, tiny, feel," she said mischievously, edging forward.

"No."

"A little bit of a grope."

"No, Violet. I haven't let you put me in these ridiculous things just so you can have me out of them again."

"Who said you had to get all the way of them?"

Violet ignored Sherlock's order to stay away and came up behind him. She snaked her hands around his waist, hugging him, and peering around his shoulder so she could see his reflection in the mirror. Her hands caressed his bare torso before heading southward. Sherlock dropped his head and heaved out a sigh.

"Go away," he said eventually, grasping Violet's hands and stepping out of her embrace. He crossed his bedroom and stood at the end of the bed, staring in disgust at the shirts spread out before him.

Violet and Sherlock were getting ready to go to Spencer's 30th. Violet had already found a pair of jeans in the back of Sherlock's wardrobe. Despite his protests that they were to be worn for _undercover work only_ , Violet had insisted he wear them to her friend's birthday party. Insisted rather gleefully, in fact.

The couple argued heatedly then negotiated terms under which Sherlock would consent to wearing the hateful items. The promise of oral sex on two separate occasions—one in his armchair and one in the shower—plus sex on the stairs when Mrs Hudson was out, _and_ permission to read next week's shooting script for _Regency Road_ , was the sum total of Sherlock's negotiated package. The deal was made in return for Violet seeing _her_ prize package in a pair of slim-fitting black jeans, accompanied by one of the two shirts she'd bought Sherlock _off the rack_ that morning. She'd finished playing in her charity football match with the rest of the cast then went shopping with Priyal and her girlfriend. A busy Saturday for the soapie actress.

Should she feel guilty for treating her boyfriend like a sex object? No. Not really.

-o-

Sherlock resigned himself to the fact that his girlfriend was going to _accidentally_ brush her hand on his arse every so often, and more frequently as the night wore on. Perhaps give it a hard squeeze too, if he found himself alone in a dark corner with the actress. He noted that Violet's affections were more amorous the more she drank. And although initially they had agreed Sherlock would keep a tally on her alcohol intake to prevent her reaching her blackout limit—six or seven standard drinks, he recalled—Sherlock reasoned that he himself could only tolerate this social outing if he was also under the influence of something. Before the pair knew it, Sherlock had completely lost count on both his and Violet's alcohol consumption. At one stage he stood muttering to himself in the alleyway at the back of the club when he stepped out for a cigarette.

"The champagne on arrival, the boutique spirit while hanging off my arm, dragging me over to Spencer, and another, so that's three... more champagne..." Sherlock paced along the alley as he spoke and mused. He punctuated the air with his lit cigarette, vocalising his staggered thoughts. "No... champagne refill... four, five..." His brow remained furrowed, and he scratched his head several times. Finally he leant back against the rough brick wall and dragged on his cigarette. He concluded he had no idea. He'd left Violet talking to some nobodies by the bar. Were they about to have shots? His recall was hazy. _Best get back to it then._

Violet seized Sherlock when she spied him re-entering the club. News. She had exciting news. Violet _always_ had something exciting to say. He loved the way her eyes lit up, and she became more tactile. More tactile than usual.

It was something about Killaney— _he's Spencer's boyfriend, you know, Violet—_ something about a movie. No. Movie _sequel,_ whatever that was.

"He's going to recommend _me_ for the part," Violet gushed, draping herself all over Sherlock. " _Me!_ "

"What part?" Sherlock asked, pressing his forehead to Violet's as they spoke. It afforded them a small bubble of privacy when he did this, and the rest of the world couldn't get in... or so it felt like.

"As one of the five. _Anuket's Children._ I don't know. Satis, I think her name is. She's an Egyptian goddess. _Satis_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock said blinking slowly and shrugging. Why was his brain failing to function properly? He straightened up, thus destroying their private bubble. "Can we go now? You've had far too much to drink." _I've had far too much too drink._

"One of the _five,_ Sherlock," Violet said, hanging onto Sherlock's jacket lapels. " _Anuket's Children. The Rise of the Five._ It's a series of comic books."

Heavy exhale. _Boring_. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

"Tim was telling me about it."

Sherlock leant closer to Violet and lowered his voice. "He's Spencer's _boyfriend_ , you know, Violet."

"They're making a sequel," she ploughed on, ignoring his comment. "He was in the first movie."

"I don't watch movies."

Small creases appeared in Violet's brow in an exaggerated look of annoyance. "You're going to watch all of mine."

"No. Movies are rubbish."

"You're only saying that because you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

Sherlock straightened up so he appeared even taller than Violet—a sure sign that he could not possibly be inebriated.

"Yes, you are," Violet countered, giggling a little. She waggled a finger at her boyfriend and added, "Your brain's not working."

"My brain's working per-perfectly. Look."

Sherlock scanned their immediate vicinity. He narrowed his already slitted, glassy eyes, then pointed at the bartender.

"Stealing from the till," he said. The bartender froze and widened his eyes in alarm, but Sherlock was already redirecting Violet's gaze to a couple near them. "He's actually not interested in her, and longs to get away. His whole body is pivoted in the other direction." The couple looked at Sherlock, as Violet snorted out a laugh.

"You said that too loudly!"

She commenced giggling, prompting Sherlock to rumble a closed-mouth laugh along with her.

He drew her in closely and said, "And you're drunk." Violet tilted her head and beamed up at Sherlock for his brilliant deductions. "You've been guzzling drinks all evening," he added. "Why's that? Because you're trying to obliterate all your bad memories." Sherlock raised his hand and tapped a finger to Violet's forehead. "Drowning the bad bits in alcohol, but there's too many. Too many, Violet! And your memories can _float_!"

Violet continued gazing up at her boyfriend, either doe-eyed with wonder, or so completely tanked that she couldn't follow him anyway.

"Your mum's dead," Sherlock continued. "And you dad's an arsehole. And your boyfriend's a drunk. Not _me..._ that other... dickhead. And then there's the Manc-y mobster boyfriend, addicted to cocaine... No, _not me_! That other one... the coward! Coward, Violet!"

Sherlock pressed his forehead to his girlfriend's once more.

"You've had rubbish boyfriends," he murmured. "But look at you. You're clearly in love."

"Yes," Violet volunteered somewhat dreamily.

"With me of course, because I'm the best."

There was a tap on Sherlock's shoulder and Violet's face had already lit up in recognition of the interloper. Sherlock turned his head to find Timothy Killaney grinning broadly at the pair.

"May I interrupt you both to steal your girlfriend away for a dance?" Killaney asked Sherlock.

Creases appeared in Sherlock's brow. He was about to convince his girlfriend to come home with him.

"Why don't you ask your boyfriend to dance? Give him a birthday treat!" He gave Timothy Killaney a broad, fake smile, but then his mind put a halt to his rambling. There was something about _birthday treats_ and _Violet_ that he couldn't say in her presence.

Killaney's ever-present grin immediately disappeared.

 _Surprise Violet for the birthday I missed,_ Sherlock's mind recalled gleefully. Killaney swiftly disappeared. Sherlock didn't notice. _But when_ was _her birthday?_ Sherlock remembered that Violet had said on her _Brekky TV_ interview that she had _just turned twenty-five._ The detective was hoping it hadn't occurred when they had already reconciled. But surely Violet would've said something about it if Sherlock had missed such a significant date when they were together. He had to find out her date of birth.

Violet was furiously tapping his chest. He hadn't noticed while he had been delving into his Mind Palace. He could only process one thing at a time in his current state.

"He doesn't know we know!" she whispered fiercely.

"What?"

"Tim! He didn't know that you worked it out about him and Spence. Sherlock! He's upset!"

Sherlock pouted. So they were back to this conversation topic. _Dull._ He had been interrupted while he was working out something else. Something _important._ This was old news.

"Why would he think that?" Sherlock asked Violet. "The whole club would know by now," he added, gesturing at said club by swinging his arm wildly about him. "If only people ob... ob..." He paused, narrowing his eyes once more as the word eluded him. "If only people used their eyes and their mind." He tapped a finger to his temple. "Look, Violet."

Sherlock pivoted the actress so she could see Timothy Killaney who was now in an intense conversation with the birthday boy himself.

"See how they're positioned?" Sherlock prompted her, holding an arm loosely about Violet's shoulders. "Hunched together, barely a breath apart. The intens... sity of their conversation tells you how intimate they are."

The couple stared across the room at the two _Hibbert and Platt_ co-stars. When Spence glanced in their direction, Sherlock gave him a little wave in acknowledgement. Violet snapped his hand down, laughing.

"Don't do that! We'll have to leave now!"

"Yes, my thoughts exactly," Sherlock replied.

Leaving the party wasn't as easy an exercise as Sherlock imagined it would be. Suddenly more champagne appeared for toasting the birthday boy, a cake needed to be cut and consumed, and a male stripper took to the centre of the dance floor. Sherlock remembered there was a lot of giggling and cuddling with his girlfriend on the fringes of the crowd while everyone else was occupied with the spectacle. They retired to a dark corner for a brief session of snogging. Sherlock was trying to edge them closer to the exit, a process that took about two hours.

Of course they had to say goodbye to Spencer Munro, where Violet spent an extraordinary amount of time in conversation with the birthday boy. Sherlock knew she was apologising for the detective's deduction earlier— _why must she apologise for my brilliance?—_ and alternately quizzing her ex-flatmate on his relationship with the renowned British actor.

While Violet and Spence were deep in conversation and Sherlock was staring at the dance floor and nursing a scotch whiskey— _how did this drink end up in my hand?—_ Sherlock was approached by Timothy Killaney. The actor greeted the detective with a half smile, then clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Sorry about my dummy spit earlier, my friend," Killaney said as Sherlock tried not-so-subtly to move out of Tim's reach. Timothy noticed this and dropped his hand, saying, "I should've realised nothing would be lost on you."

Sherlock shrugged, almost afraid to say anything else that would offend the man and have him _not_ recommend Violet for a role in a movie—at least that was the advice Violet had given him over the course of the evening.

"But you do understand our need for privacy?" Killaney was asking, prompting Sherlock to narrow his eyes in thought. Was he supposed to respond now?

"I don't see what the big deal is," Sherlock replied. "What business is it of anyone's?"

Killaney made noises in agreement, and tried to explain to Sherlock the intrusiveness of the media and what life in the public eye was like. The actor's explanations washed over Sherlock like a tide depositing boring driftwood on the shore instead of a bloated corpse, but he nodded in all the right places anyway. Then Killaney shook his hand, wished him luck for accompanying Violet to the TELSAs— _Why? How hard can that exercise be?_ —clapped him on the shoulder once more and had moved away.

Tim Killaney gathered Violet into his arms and appeared to be whispering assurances to her as Spencer Munro, the birthday boy, grabbed Sherlock in an embrace and thanked him for coming. By now, Sherlock was resigning himself to the fact that actors were touchy-feely people.

"By the way," Spencer whispered into Sherlock's ear, "You're totally rocking those jeans."

-oOo-


	20. Never Mind Your Usual Trivia

**Chapter 19 – Never Mind Your Usual Trivia**

Gone were the double brick rendered walls, high ceilings and sun drenched French windows. The rooms were now metal vaults, and when Sherlock walked through them, his footsteps echoed loudly throughout, vibrating the surrounding walls and floor and rattling his head. The booming voice of his brother resonated around him.

" _The effects of ethanol over-consumption. Can you feel it?"_

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, bringing him out of his Mind Prison.

A hangover. He had a _hangover_.

He closed his eyes again, but the action brought no relief. His bladder was full and his mouth was dry—two physiological symptoms that he could seek to alleviate if only the thought of repositioning himself vertically didn't bring with it the need to vomit.

He rolled to his back then slowly turned to face the middle of the bed. Violet was facing the other way. She was as naked as he was. They'd had sex, he recalled. He remembered the entire evening. He wondered how much his girlfriend would remember. She had promised him, over and over, that she wouldn't be angry with him in the morning for fucking her when she had drunk way beyond her blackout limit. She had promised.

 _The promise was made while she was completely shit-faced,_ a John Watson-like voice volunteered in Sherlock's Mind Prison.

The sheet was loosely bunched up around her legs, so Sherlock reached out and ran the back of his index finger along the smooth silky skin of Violet's back. He didn't want to have sex with her right now, but he wanted her to wake up so she could share in his discomfit, and perhaps alleviate it in some way.

Violet hummed a sound that seemed to combine pain with annoyance. He wasn't going to coax her awake any time soon. Self-preservation had kicked in and she wouldn't want anything to do with Sherlock.

Sherlock left the bed with delicate precision and relieved himself in the bathroom. While washing his hands, he strove to avoid looking at his reflection in the vanity mirror. Having left the bathroom with only a vague idea that his hair stood on end (he must look like he'd been fucking!), and that his eyes were bloodshot and puffy, he donned his second best dressing gown, made his way into the kitchen and filled two tumblers with water. He drained one, and brought the second back to the bedroom. He placed it down with an audible plonk onto the bedside table nearest Violet. She didn't stir.

Sherlock bowed his head and exhaled deeply. There was a bit of a mess in the living room, his cursory glance told him while he was out there a minute ago. He knew he should tidy it up a bit before the landlady made an appearance.

He shed his dressing gown, drew on his pyjamas, then wrapped the gown around himself once more.

Sherlock followed the clothing trail all the way back to the landing, picking up each item as he went. Sex on the stairs. One item on Violet's debt list had now been checked off. He wore the damn jeans, and now she had to pay. It's a pity she wouldn't remember it; it was particularly thrilling. They were half clothed, he recalled, smiling to himself. And then they had continued merrily into the bedroom, tearing away at each other's clothing as they went.

But he couldn't remember if he'd climaxed or not. Or did he just fall asleep?

Sherlock stooped to pick up Violet's jacket, the first casualty in the Battle of Too Many Clothes and the last clothing article he needed to retrieve. As he made to straighten up, he was startled to see a pair of shoes at the top of the stairs. There was only one man who would wear a pair of polished brogues from Church's office collection on a weekend. And the tip of an umbrella adjacent to said pair of shoes was an obvious giveaway.

"Laundry day is it?" Mycroft Holmes quipped in a voice as polished as his triple-sole Burwoods.

Sherlock had fully straightened up, clutching the now larger pile of clothing in his hands. Unfortunately he received an _error 404-file not found_ message when he tried to retrieve a snappy retort from his Mind palace database. He had to resort to narrowing his eyes at his brother as his only response.

Mycroft's mouth turned down at the corners as his own eyes took in the dishevelled state of his younger brother. Sherlock turned from the look of disappointment and crossed the threshold into the living room. He knew that look only too well.

"Have you broken up with Ms Hunter again?" Mycroft asked upon following Sherlock into the flat.

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock asked, already knowing his brother's answer.

It was the first time Sherlock had spoken since waking up. His voice was exceptionally deep and full of gravel.

"Because you've quite clearly been out on the turps. Although..."

Mycroft's pause told Sherlock that his brother had deduced that the detective had been shagging the night before as well.

"I haven't been drowning my sorrows, Mycroft," Sherlock responded. "We were at a party celebrating a birthday. Together."

"A _party_?"

"Yes."

"Not Ms Hunter's birthday surely. Hers was in February, was it not?"

 _February._

They weren't together in February. Thank God for that.

Sherlock made no sign that this was news to him. Of course Mycroft would have committed every detail of Violet's file to memory. Sherlock hoped only the line items, and not the photographs, were stored in his brother's mental database.

"No, it was for a friend of hers. Why are you here?"

"I have a case for you."

"Not interested," Sherlock replied automatically.

Something caught Sherlock's eye and he glanced down at a spot by Mycroft's shoes. Unfortunately, his brother noticed and immediately followed his gaze.

Mycroft had positioned the tip of his umbrella on the rug precisely in the place where a pair of Violet's lacy black underwear lay. Sherlock hadn't found them in his clean up because the dark fabric had been camouflaged against the patterned rug, and the detective's observational skills were not the best this morning.

Mycroft ran the tip of the umbrella an inch along the carpet, scooping up the clothing item in one fluid movement. He held out his umbrella to Sherlock with Violet's underwear dangling from the end. As Sherlock reached out to retrieve them, Mycroft's eyes widened so imperceptibly only a Consulting Detective would notice. Clearly the older Holmes had only just realised what item of clothing he had picked up.

Sherlock couldn't help but rumble out a laugh as the lacy garment joined the others in his arms. Any chance for making his brother squirm was one to be seized.

"Excuse me. For a moment," he said to Mycroft, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

Sherlock strode through the kitchen and into his bedroom. He dropped the pile of clothes onto the floor then slowly rounded the bed. Violet hadn't moved at all. Sherlock bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. She murmured in irritation, so Sherlock sank onto the bed beside her.

"Violet," he said in a low voice.

"Mmm, go away," she muttered.

"There's a glass of water here for you."

Violet didn't respond, so Sherlock rose and left the room for his ensuite. He retrieved a couple of paracetamol tablets from the vanity cabinet, swallowed them whole, plucked out a couple more then returned to the bedroom. He placed the tablets beside the glass of water. He didn't care that he was keeping his brother waiting. Mycroft Holmes probably needed some time to absorb the state of Sherlock's living area, noting all of the subtle changes that had been made ever since Violet had re-entered the detective's life.

"Violet," he said again, once more taking a seat on the bed.

"I don't want to wake up," she replied in a quiet desperation.

A smile grew on Sherlock's face. He knew she would want to remain very still. He'd seen her nursing a hangover once before, and that hadn't end well for him. But now they were back together again, and he could spend the day recovering with her.

He reached over and placed a soft hand on her arm.

"My brother's here," he said. "Just letting you know in case you storm into the living room naked and angry."

Small creases appeared in Violet's brow as her only acknowledgement that she'd registered his statement.

"Although that would be very funny," he added.

When she determinedly said nothing else, Sherlock told her about the tablets, and that he was leaving the bedroom now to find out about the case Mycroft had brought him.

Naturally he was curious. He had only refused Mycroft automatically because that was what he did—strive to find ways to annoy his brother. And he had nothing else on since he wasn't supposed to be working on the Sebastian Moran-Jake Venucci case for a bit. And God knows whether or not Violet wanted him to proceed with the Lauren Myrtle cold case. Sherlock hoped Mycroft's case wasn't out of London, didn't involve politicians, but did have a corpse or two.

"Alexander Holder. Do you remember the family?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock re-entered his living room. It seemed the stuffy ponce had decided against making small talk about Violet's presence or criticising Sherlock for his night out drinking.

"Ah. No," Sherlock lied.

Mycroft went on to explain about the Member of Parliament— _dear Lord, shoot me now—_ who had a number of valuables stolen, and had suspected the culprit was one of his own children. Wanting to avoid a possible scandal, he was seeking the help of the Consulting Detective.

While Mycroft was reminding Sherlock of the Holder family's dynamics, Holmes the younger was only half listening. Sherlock had decided to raid Violet's hand bag after he had spied it on the floor by the coffee table. He kept his back to Mycroft while he did so, his brother having made himself comfortable in John Watson's old armchair.

Sherlock found what he was looking for—Violet's driving licence—while Mycroft droned on about Alexander Holder's wayward youngest daughter. _So Violet can drive?_ Sherlock imagined that his girlfriend would be a terror on the roads. He could just picture her looking down at her phone while she was driving and rear-ending another vehicle stopped at an intersection.

But there it was on her licence, as item number three.

 _1\. Hunter_

 _2\. Violet Therese_

 _3\. 02-02-1988 England_

So Violet's birthday was on the 2nd of February. She had just turned twenty-five. _And her middle name is her mother's first name._ Why didn't he know these things?

Sherlock slid the licence back into the compartment in Violet's purse. It was a snug fit because there was a piece of cardboard crammed into the same slot. Curious, Sherlock tugged on it. He discovered it was a photograph from one of those photo booths, of two young women, one of which was Violet. Sherlock stared at her image with an uncomfortable churning in his gut. Violet appeared much thinner—emaciated, even—hollow-eyed, but still smiling. A spidery scrawl on the back of the photo read _Lettie and Em_.

 _Lettie?_ As in Vio- _let?_

 _I've had a lot of problems with..._ her confession from a lifetime ago echoed through his mind. _I was such a loser at twenty-one._ And she had qualified her vague confession with _I'm surprised you didn't already make a deduction about past recreational drug use._

Sherlock grimaced inwardly, thinking that the age of twenty-one for Violet wasn't so long ago. Hell, twenty-one wasn't so long ago for him either. Now what had _he_ been doing at that age? Besides bare-knuckle boxing. Perhaps he wasn't so different from Violet after all. And the man who was still regaling him with boring details about some politician's family behind him only knew half of what Sherlock got up to at that age.

But enough of the trip down memory lane. Why hadn't he raided Violet's hand bag before? There could be all sorts of interesting _personal_ items contained within.

As the droning continued—something about Alexander Holder's wayward son now—Sherlock replaced the photo and delved into the rest of the contents of Violet's bag. Before he could stop himself. Before he could tell himself that this was _prying._

"Sherlock, are you listening?" Mycroft called.

With a noise that sounded almost like glee, Sherlock withdraw a manuscript. He turned to face his brother and waved a hand nonchalantly.

"Son. Disappointment. Gambling problems. _Do_ continue. This is all so _fascinating._ "

Sherlock took to his armchair opposite Mycroft, the latter having fixed beady eyes onto the document Sherlock was now holding and rifling through with the eagerness of an addict.

Mycroft slowly inhaled, then clucked his tongue.

"That's all the introduction you require for the moment. You can find out the rest of the details on your arrival. Mr Holder will be delighted to put you up for a few nights. As long as you need, in fact."

Sherlock looked up from his perusal of Violet's _Regency Road_ script.

"Put me up?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, rising from his seat. "You'll be staying at their estate. You do remember where they reside, don't you?"

Sherlock knitted his brows together and assessed the case thus far: firstly a politician, secondly, no murder, and now he had to leave London. This case had three strikes against it. He sighed deeply. He raised the script so he didn't have to see Mycroft's smarmy expression and pretended to be absorbed in something far more interesting.

"Of course I do," he muttered. He'd take the case. He had nothing else to do, after all.

Mycroft gave an audible sigh.

"Violet's last week of shooting that abominable TV show? I _do_ hope you enjoy the revelation. It promises to be scandalous, I'm sure. A perfect reason for having Violet's character forced to leave."

Sherlock slowly lowered the script and narrowed his eyes at his brother.

Mycroft gave Sherlock what could be interpreted as a smile.

"Mummy worked it out, of course. I'm sure it would've been obvious to me had I ever laid eyes on the ridiculous programme. I do wish she'd stop phoning me about it. I'll be glad once Violet's stint is over."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and snapped the pages shut. He let his eyes wander everywhere else except on the poncy git's face.

"Oh and Sherlock," Mycroft began again, the lightness in his tone having disappeared.

Sherlock petulantly locked eyes with his brother's.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking there is anything casual or innocent about the over-consumption of alcohol. Especially where it concerns _you_."

 _Here it comes,_ Sherlock thought, his gaze unwavering and his expression unchanging. But Mycroft surprised the detective by not hardening his own features, quite the opposite.

"Did you think... did you even remember..."

Sherlock hated seeing his brother faltering like this. It only made him want to harden his heart even further. He rose from his own seat, dropping the script behind him.

Silently he strode to the door, and swung it toward him so he could access the hooks on the back and therefore the coat he had worn last night. Reaching into a pocket, he drew out a paper napkin. Of course he remembered. He had even sought a pen from the bartender at some stage.

Sherlock held out the napkin to Mycroft. The detective tried to keep his expression devoid of emotion, even going so far as to raise his eyebrows in a bid to appear nonchalant. He watched as his brother read the one item Sherlock had written on the napkin.

 _ethanol_

"Oh, I could've written 'nicotine' as well," Sherlock added, "but that's usually a given."

Mycroft made no further comment as he pocketed the napkin. He strode past his sibling and exited the flat.

His brother's silence made more of an impact on Sherlock than any further chastisement would have. He knew what _that_ particular silence meant, and a tightness grew in his chest, expanding into his throat causing a lump to form there.

Sherlock willed himself to turn from the place his brother had left him and spied the script on his armchair. He drew in a calming breath, then muttered, "Time to find out if my deduction is correct."

-o-

"But that's not fair," Violet complained.

Sherlock steeled himself for the accusations about taking advantage of Violet while she was drunk, but they didn't come. Violet continued to pout as she lay in bed. She'd missed out on having sex with Sherlock on the stairs, and therefore getting to help him out of his jeans. Sherlock had described to her just how the evening had panned out, from snogging in the club, saying their goodbyes to Spence and Tim, and leaving to walk the back streets of Soho, occasionally snogging in seedy alleyways.

"I thought we could both walk off our intoxication, but..."

He was _hoping_ to have Violet sober up a bit, so she stood a better chance of remembering what he had in store for her, but he had become aroused beyond all measure and was desperate to get back home. His jeans were fairly restrictive when it came to an erection.

Sherlock gathered Violet up in his arms as they lay on the bed together. He chuckled and murmured, "Sorry," before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. "But you were very persistent."

At least by now Violet had showered and downed the paracetamol. She was dressed in pyjamas and had been waiting for Sherlock to return from the living room. She dozed on and off while waiting.

Sherlock had found her fast asleep after he'd finished reading the _Regency Road_ script, so he decided to shower as well, don a fresh pair of pyjamas and join her in bed to sleep off his own hangover.

When she finally awoke, the first question posed to the detective was, "Did we have sex last night?"

"Yes," Sherlock had responded.

"In an interesting location?"

"Yes."

Violet's eyes widened. "In an alleyway?"

"Is that your most interesting location?"

"Isn't it yours?"

Sherlock frowned at his girlfriend. "Why do you ask that?"

"Because of the women you've had sex with before. You mentioned you sometimes used an alleyway."

Sherlock didn't recall saying this, but he felt he had been in a very strange place emotionally on the evening he had first made a confession to his then personal assistant about having casual sex with women.

"Sorry. You and I did it on the stairs."

And then Violet proceeded to sulk.

He chuckled and kissed her some more until she began to soften in his arms.

"There's always a next time. And besides, you've now got two items left to repay me for wearing those ridiculous things."

"Did I give you head—"

"No. I read next week's script."

Sherlock was relieved to find that this information brought a slow smile to Violet's face.

"You were right about Shaun's father," she said.

"Yes, I was."

This time, Violet brushed her lips against his.

"Clever," she murmured, deepening the kiss that began so sweetly until she was taking exactly what she wanted from him.

Sherlock let her kisses linger for a little while, before he drew back. There were pressing matters to tend to, and now that his girlfriend was awake and feeling marginally better, he ought to address them.

"I have a case," he stated.

"That's nice." And then her hands began to wander.

"And since you've only got two days at the studio next week, perhaps—"

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock's mouth stretched into a smile. "Because you scribbled your schedule on the front page of your script. So... would you like to work on a case with me?"

Violet's eyes lit up. Exactly the reaction Sherlock was hoping for.

"Do we have to start now?" she asked. "Is it an email case, or one from Scotland Yard?"

"Neither. Did you remember me mentioning my brother was here?"

Sherlock explained the rudiments of the case to Violet as she cuddled into his chest.

"So we should go soon," he concluded. Perhaps after lunch? We'll have to get to Euston station."

Violet lifted her head. "What? We have to catch a train?"

"Yes. The Holders have an estate just out of Altrincham, so we'll—"

"Altrincham. But that's—"

"We change trains at Stockport," Sherlock finished, thinking he knew what Violet's concern was. "We don't go need to go as far as Manchester."

Violet lay her head back down again. She fiddled with the fabric of Sherlock's pyjama shirt. Obviously something was bothering her, Sherlock thought. Most likely his mention of Manchester, triggering memories of the man who lived there.

"Could we stop in Manchester on the way back?" Violet asked eventually. "I have someone I want to see."

-oOo-

 **Author's Notes:**

Alexander Holder comes from 'The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.'


	21. Still Has Trust Issues

**Chapter 20 - Still Has Trust Issues**

"Oh my God! You're Christa from _Regency Road_!"

Sara, a petite, sandy-haired young woman, covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide in astonishment. Her father, Alexander Holder, and sister, Kate, looked on at her, barely concealing their embarrassment at her sudden exclamation.

"This is Mr Holmes's personal assistant," Holder spluttered, his face turning a darker shade of beetroot.

"Oh, Mr Holder. I _am_ an actor on a TV soap..." Violet began.

"Why on earth would you bring an actress out here, Holmes?" Holder demanded, turning to Sherlock.

"Ms Hunter is my personal assistant," Sherlock stated simply.

 _Ms Hunter, for God's sake_ , Violet thought.

Aloud, she added, "I've always been _Mr Holmes's_ part-time assistant, even before I was on TV. It's a job I've loathed to give up, although I don't usually get time to travel with him until now."

Sherlock turned to her, and raised his eyebrows a little. Violet knew that look. It indicated a silent reprimand for speaking a load of crap while he was trying to work on a case. She narrowed her eyes at him in response, hoping he'd know _this_ look, which meant, _Stop being a fucking posh, stuck up twat_.

Violet was starting to regret accompanying Sherlock on this particular case, despite its location in the country-side. She had wondered if she'd do or say the wrong thing, and had reminded herself repeatedly not to swear.

"Oh my God, Christa's leaving the show! You don't sound like Christa though?" Sara said looking puzzled.

Sherlock turned to Holder and said, "I trust we can rely on you and your family's discretion as much as you can rely on ours?"

Violet stifled an eyeroll. Turning to Sara, she said quickly and in a low voice, "I'm not really from Manchester."

"Of course," Holder said to Sherlock, puffing out his chest a little to reassert his authority. "Kate?" he said, prompting his older daughter.

"Come on, Sara," said Kate. "Let's get the tea things shall we?"

"That's Lucy's job," Sara retorted, pouting as she followed her older sister out of the room.

"Lucy's making up the rooms," Kate told her sibling.

"Now, I expect you may like to freshen up before we get started?" Holder said, directing his question at Sherlock once more.

Violet opened her mouth to reply in the affirmative when Sherlock swiftly answered.

"No, no, not at all, Mr Holder. I'm keen to have a look around immediately." His eyes sparkled, and a smile played on his lips.

Not a hint of tiredness, Violet noted. He didn't even sleep on the train. She, on the other hand, was busting to go to the loo. And she was just a little bit hungover. A tiny bit, really. Sherlock was all for the work as usual. That was the good thing about him. And the bad.

"We'll start with my study," Holder suggested.

Violet dutifully followed the two men from the drawing room, but when she spied the stairs, she called out, "I'll just be a tick. Go on without me!"

And she scrambled up without looking back to see if Sherlock was shooting her daggers.

Violet climbed the two flights of stairs. She had been told that her room was on the second floor. Sherlock's was on the first. Arsehole. She found hers easily enough. _Second on the left,_ Kate had told her earlier. It was the only room that had the door open. The space was clean, comfortable, adequate.

No.

Small. Bare. Sparsely furnished.

Violet's suitcase lay on top of a trunk at one end of the room. She noted its location, then drifted away to find the bathroom.

No ensuite then, she thought in disappointment. The rest of the house was so lovely in comparison.

Violet found the guest bathroom at the end of the hallway by the stairs. Instead of using the facilities, she decided to check out Sherlock's room first while nobody was about. Descending to the first floor, she thought that the guest room allocated to Sherlock may be a little harder to find. All of the doors were shut. Still, it wouldn't be too difficult to quickly glance into the rooms to find the one where Sherlock's overnight luggage had been stored.

Violet got lucky on her first attempt. She gasped, then entered the grand guest suite.

 _Fucking arsehole. Personal assistant, my arse._

Violet wondered what Sherlock had told the Holders about the companion he was bringing along. _Just my PA_ , he had probably stated nonchalantly. _Just install her upstairs in the servants' quarters, or the attic, or perhaps down in the scullery? Don't go to too much trouble._

 _Sherlock Holmes_ , Violet muttered under her breath as she gave herself a private tour of her employer's rooms. _Rooms_. Because there was a privacy screen between the sitting area, with its cozy, personal-sized fireplace and armchairs, and the freaking enormous four-poster bed. And beyond that was a closed door, and behind which—Violet Hunter would wager both her boyfriend's testicles—stood an ensuite bathroom.

And she discovered that she was correct. The bathroom was even bigger than the bedroom she had been allocated.

Violet chuckled to herself as she approached the cast iron claw foot bathtub.

 _I am so going to have a long bath in here tonight, Mr Holmes, you upper class bastard_ , Violet vowed, as she ran her fingers along the smooth, porcelain interior.

Satisfied that she was going to thoroughly enjoy the spoils of the great Consulting Detective's fancy guest suite, Violet used the bathroom, then returned to the main room. She stood with her back to the window, critically eyeing the bed.

An idea danced through her mind fuelled by her now heavy limbs and the deceleration of her thoughts.

 _If I could just…_

… _only for a minute…_

Half a second later, she lay stretched out on the bed. Two seconds later, her eyelids fluttered shut.

-o-

"Well, well."

Sherlock Holmes studied the no longer lifeless body in front of him. Initial scans of the scene revealed an ineffective personal assistant—obviously still hungover from celebrating a friend's birthday the night before—curious about her employer's accommodation, and succumbing to her physical limitations and desires.

Violet blinked, rubbed her eyes and stared blearily up at her boyfriend. Sherlock could tell she was completely disoriented in both time and space. An affectionate smile stretched across his face. As far as he was concerned, Violet Hunter in those first few seconds upon waking, was the most heart-warming and desirable vision in his entire world.

She wrinkled her brow then propped herself up onto her elbows and slowly scanned the room.

"What?" she croaked.

"You missed afternoon tea. We waited for you. In awkward silence."

"What?"

Violet blinked again, not comprehending.

"I'm joking," Sherlock added, casually slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. "The instant you disappeared upstairs I made my excuses for you. I said you were feeling under the weather."

"I feel like crap."

"Mmm. Consistent with your appearance."

"Fuck off."

Sherlock moved from the bed toward the sitting area as Violet slid to an upright position.

"There's a tea tray out here," he called back.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock paused and turned to face his girlfriend.

"To fetch your belongings," he replied with a tiny smile. "Why don't you have a shower? Freshen up a bit."

Violet turned and slid from the bed, her tousled hair and rumpled clothes matching in their dishevelment.

"What time is it?"

"Dinner's in a hour," Sherlock replied, continuing on to the door. "And by the way—I've solved the case."

-o-

Violet stepped out of the shower, towel-dried herself, then grabbed her dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door where Sherlock had hung it for her. The detective was in the sitting area, whistling to himself as he poured her tea.

Violet hung up her towel then left the bathroom, tying the sash of her gown as she did so. She was relieved that Sherlock wasn't annoyed with her for falling asleep instead of assisting him with his work. She was wide awake now, and ready to acquire the last two snippets of information for Sherlock to have an entirely connected case. She could at least do that.

"So, you'll exit through the side door," Sherlock said to Violet as he handed her a tea cup, and continuing a conversation they had started earlier. "And take the path nearest the house. Go through the wooden gate, then pace up and down alongside the gate, but don't go further than two metres from the house. Ring me when you're there."

"And you'll be?" Violet asked, as she took her seat at the tiny table by the window.

"Trying to see if you're visible from the parlour window."

Sherlock needed to confirm if his theory was correct, but they had to wait for nightfall. He also wanted Violet to accompany Sara Holder on a shopping spree to Manchester the next morning. He said that the name of the man young Ms Holder was secretly having an affair with was crucial to closing the case. He already had his suspicions. And Violet was perfectly placed to assume the role of young Ms Holder's confidante, since the _Regency Road_ fan was obviously star struck.

Violet knew that Sherlock also had an ulterior motive for suggesting his personal assistant escort Sara to Manchester. Yes, he did need that information, but he also casually added that Ms Holder could accompany the actress to visit the friend Violet had wanted to call on while they were there.

Violet took a sip of her tea as Sherlock stood at the window, gazing through the curtain onto the grounds below.

"Look, Sherlock," Violet began. "I don't think Sara should come with me to see Emily any more than I wanted you to come."

Sherlock turned from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place.

"Why?" he asked, his brow immediately furrowing.

Violet shrugged in an effort to keep her words light and casual.

"Because she's a drug addict," she replied.

"So?" Sherlock said, leaving the window and strolling toward Violet and her tea party for one. " _I'm_ a drug addict, according to those close to me." The detective took the seat opposite Violet. "Although I haven't used in..." He drifted off, knitting his brows together, deep in thought.

"Well, she's still using," Violet swiftly added. "Plus she lives in a shit hole." She smiled sheepishly and said, "Hardly the place you'd want to take a politician's daughter."

"So why would I consider it an acceptable place for _you_ to visit?"

"Because I used to live with them. I'll be fine."

" _Them_?"

Violet sighed heavily and fiddled with the handle of her tea cup.

"Emily and Riley. I'm sure I've told you about them both."

"You just said you knew Emily from London and then you followed her to Manchester when you gave up on your drama career before it had barely begun. You didn't mention this Riley character. Not that I care at all."

Small creases appeared in Violet's brow as she made eye contact with Sherlock.

"I'm sure I told you about them both ages ago, before we broke up and we were talking about drugs and ex-boyfriends. Not that Riley's an ex-boyfriend. You remember, in that cottage in Devon."

Sherlock shrugged. All he remembered was the wine, and trying to keep Violet from consuming it.

"I don't recall that conversation."

Violet narrowed her eyes at the detective, regarding him with suspicion. She was sure she had told him all about abandoning her drama studies and heading north to party with Emily and Riley when she was in her early twenties. Perhaps she _had_ and Sherlock had conveniently deleted her cute anecdote.

"Well, anyway, I had dropped out of drama school and went to Manchester. We lived off the money Riley's parents regularly sent him and used it for heroin."

Sherlock heaved out an exasperated breath. "Yes, very tragic," he said in a voice devoid of emotion. "You were running away both physically and emotionally."

"Yes. And It was..." Violet paused, her mind scrambling for words. "It was... have you ever tried it?"

"What makes you think I've tried heroin?"

"You were well off but sort of rebellious, weren't you? You admitted to using cocaine. I wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock Holmes experimented a little."

Sherlock decided at this point in time to pour himself a cup, even though he had already partaken in afternoon tea with the Holders. The subject matter had taken a turn for the worst.

"I might have," he replied nonchalantly.

A triumphant grin spread across Violet's face.

"Thought so."

"Anyway," Sherlock said, picking up his tea cup and leaning back into his chair. "We were talking about you, and your wayward ways."

"Well, there's nothing more to tell. There were clubs we went to a lot, where we could score, and one night I met Jake..."

Sherlock couldn't help it; he emitted a barely audible tut that Violet heard. She proceeded to scowl at him.

"And I became a part of his world," she continued, lifting her own tea cup from the table. "My life took a different direction and theirs continued going downhill."

"And yours went _uphill_ after associating with Jake?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Violet, who responded by glaring at him. He quickly added, "And you have to visit them... why?"

"Because I care. And it's been a while. When I was last in Manchester—after you and I broke up—I didn't visit at all. I was too wrapped up in my own problems. I feel awful that I didn't check up on them."

"I'm sure it's okay to be absorbed in your own problems once in a while." _Is it?_ Sherlock asked himself, just to double-check. Who knew with these _relationship_ things. "And anyway," he added, "aren't they adults and perfectly capable of looking after themselves?"

Violet sighed heavily and didn't answer straight away. She drained her cup, after which Sherlock made swift work of refilling it. Since he'd successfully steered the conversation safely away from his own dark past, and onto Violet's, he thought he should only encourage her to keep talking. She may mention something about Jake Venucci and the ex-boyfriend's connections to other seedy underworld figures. If only she'd get off the topic of her pathetic drug-addled friends.

"I just want to see how they're going," she said eventually.

Sherlock could see that Violet's mood was rapidly taking a dive. It was time to act more accommodating, otherwise she'd start swearing and these walls were paper thin.

"Fine," he said. He rose from his seat and indifferently waved a hand, saying, "Just send Ms Holder back in the car then. I'll meet you in Manchester in the afternoon. How long do you need?"

"You don't need to come to Manchester. I'll catch the train back to Stockport. It's silly if you—"

"No, I'll come to Manchester. It'll be faster catching the train to London directly from there. How long to you need for this… visit?"

"Sherlock."

"What?"

Violet rose from her seat as well, and faced her boyfriend. "Do you think you need to keep tabs on me?"

Of course he was concerned for her welfare while she was in Manchester, Sherlock had decided. That cowardly ex-boyfriend of hers resided in the same city.

"No," he lied.

Violet's expression remained unchanging however. Sherlock exhaled wearily.

"It's only because I care," he replied, trying desperately to sound sincere.

Violet folded her arms in front of her. "I'll be fine," she said evenly.

"You thought you'd be fine jogging in Hyde Park. Look how that turned out."

Violet's scowl deepened. "I don't plan on seeing Jake on this trip."

"You didn't plan on—"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "And then there's all those other boyfriends." He waved a flippant hand and added, "Another one could pop out of the woodwork at any second."

"What? Who? Nick doesn't live in Manchester."

"I'm not talking about the _alcoholic_."

Sherlock frantically searched his mental file on Violet's ex-boyfriends. Without realising what he was doing, he began to make a slow circuit around her.

"There's the one who dumped you," he said, narrowing his eyes in thought. "And—"

"Damian?"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, deepening his voice. "I haven't met him yet. What's his specialty?"

"You're an arsehole."

"And then there's the ones you've had casual sex with," he added, still tracing a circuitous route around his girlfriend with his hands folded behind his back. Mind Palace Mycroft stood regimentally tall, within Sherlock's Violet Vault, casually handing the detective entries from the file on his girlfriend and her past relationships. "A one-night stand, perhaps, not a casual fling with someone you didn't know, but someone you did."

"I've never told you—"

"Danny. Jake's... _thingamy_."

Violet gaped at Sherlock for a moment.

"What?" she said. A heated flush spread across her cheeks. "When have I ever mentioned that?"

A smile grew on Sherlock's face, and he stopped pacing.

"Don't do that," Violet said.

"Do what?"

"Make deductions about me—things that are personal, that I'm not ready to tell you. That's not fair."

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap, Violet. I saw how he looked at us— _you_ , specifically—when we were snogging in the nightclub office upon our reconciliation. You don't get that kind of look unless you'd been intimate with someone and still harboured _feelings._ "

Violet momentarily froze in place before she decided to disregard all Sherlock had deduced. She strode over to her suitcase, where Sherlock had placed it at the end of the bed while she had been in the bathroom. Opening it, she added, "I'm going to Manchester, and you're finishing the case here." She retrieved her makeup bag, then turned to face Sherlock once more. "Why don't you catch the train to Birmingham and continue the Lauren Myrtle murder investigation?"

Sherlock continued to scrutinise his girlfriend as she took her makeup bag and headed into the ensuite. Of course he would meet her in Manchester, in spite of her protests. Of that there was no question.

-oOo-


	22. Do You Like Solving Crimes

**Chapter 21 -** **Do You Like Solving Crimes?**

Dinner occurred without incident or embarrassment, Violet was relieved to experience. She knew that Sherlock was observing, with some interest, her ability to behave courteously, congenially and affably around her hosts. It was a trait he'd commented on previously, when she had been interviewed on Brekky TV. Violet Hunter, in the limelight, was a completely different person—a fake person, nonetheless, at least to Sherlock Holmes, who knew and had experienced almost everything about her.

Over dinner, Violet carefully scrutinised the Holder sisters. She hated the thrill she felt for knowing that Sara Holder was having an affair with Kate's husband, George Burnwell. At least, that was Sherlock's theory, and Violet was tasked with easing a confession out of the younger sister during their shopping trip in the morning. Would Kate need a shoulder to cry on when all was revealed? More specifically, the slender shoulder of a Consulting Detective?

The conversation had moved on to sheep and spring lambs while Violet was existing in her overactive imagination. Something about infidelity breeding more infidelity and adulterous thoughts featuring Sherlock and Kate Burnwell _nee Holder_ had taken seed and started to sprout in her mind.

Violet clenched her jaw and regarded the table setting in front of her with its fine napery and ornate cutlery. _Christ, this is heavy!_ Violet thought, fingering the tines on her fork. She was beginning to resent her surroundings and the people she was dining with.

With whom she was dining.

 _For fuck's sake._

Why was she getting so worked up? Spring lambs and fucking rich landowner politicians and toffy daughters and baby potatoes tossed in fucking rosemary. _No, I would not like another serve. I can't eat that many carbs! I have to learn how to ride a horse. For my next fucking job. Oh, fuck me. I have to learn how to ride a horse!_

Violet's eyes must have widened in alarm, for Sherlock interrupted Alexander Holder's interesting anecdote about tax exemptions with, "Excuse me, for just for one moment." He turned to Violet and said, "Violet, are you all right? You still seem a bit under the weather."

Violet turned her gaze to Sherlock, conscious now that all eyes were upon her. He had a raised brow and a faint smile on his lips. He was offering her a way out, a reason to escape. He probably knew everything that had been going through her mind, the bastard!

"Yes," she said, her voice a little strained. She eased her grip from her fork. "Just a little light-headed."

There were multiple murmurings and utterances around the table, each excusing Violet and urging her to retire early. One voice stood out among the others—Kate Burnwell's. Violet resisted the urge to shoot the woman daggers, for no reason other than her voice was exceptionally posh, making her sound like she was talking down to Violet as if she were a stupid servant girl.

Violet feebly excused herself and rose from her seat. As she did so, Sherlock and Alexander Holder also stood. Violet curled her toes inside her shoes as the physical manifestation of her wanting to punch somebody in the face.

Sherlock followed her to the door as Mr Holder took his seat once more. Sherlock was behaving like the perfect gentleman. Violet wondered what the Holders would think if they knew this 'gentleman' had been fucking his personal assistant during business hours.

They were through the door and into the privacy of the hallway when Sherlock asked Violet again if she was all right, but this time it was just the two of them, and his tone was less polite.

"I'm... fine," Violet replied.

"Because it looked like you were going to stab somebody with your fork. Me, probably."

Violet returned Sherlock's smile with a resigned one of her own.

"I was just beginning to feel out of my comfort zone. Time zone, more specifically. And I ate far more than I wanted to, just out of politeness. I actually do feel... queazy."

Violet was lying, and they both knew it. Sherlock emitted a deep, rumbling chuckle and reached for her.

"I'll see the evening through, then I'll come up later," he said warmly. "I still need you to walk outside and through the gate, remember."

Violet deepened the creases that were already present in her brow, causing Sherlock to chuckle again. He bent his head and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Violet didn't respond, and when Sherlock eased back, she said darkly, "I have to learn how to ride a horse."

"That's really not necessary," Sherlock replied.

"Not for here," Violet hissed. "For _Catherine Hilderness._ "

"Oh."

"I told them I could ride. You know when you're at an audition and you say yes to everything, just so you can get the part?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "I don't know. Do you?"

"Yes. I did. So I have to learn how to ride a horse before then."

Sherlock's expression told Violet that he still found the whole situation amusing.

"That's easily done," he eventually remarked. "We'll get you a horse. How about a pony? Mrs Hudson may object, but I'm sure we'll get round her."

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face softened, and his eyes glinted in amusement.

"Don't you worry about a thing," he bid her, before capturing her mouth in his once more.

-o-

"You already know this part," Sherlock said as Violet lathered his chest with a loofah. "Holder had told his three children about the coin and banknote collection. His son Anthony, as well as his best friend Burnwell, liked to engage in a weekly game of poker with a few unsavoury characters. As a result, both had gambling debts. Anthony was found holding a bag of coins, while the folder containing the banknotes was missing. Highly unlikely he would steal the notes, hide them somewhere then go back to steal the coins."

"And where does the garden gate come into it?" Violet asked, drizzling water onto her boyfriend's chest to rinse off the soap suds.

"Sara had said she was in the parlour that night, retrieving her phone that she'd supposedly left there. She heard a noise outside. Looking out of the window, she said she saw a figure at the gate. This is where you come in."

"So I pretended to be the figure at the gate."

"Precisely. Now I couldn't see the gate from that window, nor could I see you. She was lying, trying to throw us off the scent."

"Why, when her brother has already been accused of the crime?"

"Because the maid, Lucy, heard the windows closing, and saw Sara pass by. Sara needed an excuse for opening that window. Can you piece it together yet?"

"Okay..." Violet began, ceasing her efforts and rearranging herself so that she sat between Sherlock's legs, leaning her back against him. He removed the loofah from her hand and preceded to soap up her arms. "Sara's a highly impressionable, dim-witted, over-sexed twenty-one year old. She's been having an affair with George for quite some time. He has gambling debts and upon hearing about the coin collection in her father's possession, he convinces her to steal them for him. Somehow Anthony hears her in the night going past his room or something, and he goes out to investigate. He sees her take the coins and notes from the bureau, follows her, and watches her hand them to George through the parlour window. He chases George outside, they fight—that would be the scuffle marks you observed this afternoon while I was asleep, you clever thing—and he recovers the coins and goes to put them back when he's discovered. He realises it's because Sara's in a relationship with George as the reason for her involvement, so Anthony says nothing. The revelation would destroy their sister's marriage, her relationship with her younger sister, and therefore their family. He decides to take the heat instead."

Violet dropped her head back against Sherlock's shoulder once more and added, "Am I right?"

Sherlock emitted a deep throated chuckle and drew Violet tightly against him.

"That's the entirety of it. But I would like a confession from young Ms Holder that she _is_ having an affair with George Burnwell. And my faithful personal assistant is perfectly placed to retrieve that information."

"So..." Violet began, and she inelegantly tried to turn around and face Sherlock again. Rising up onto her knees then straddling him seemed the only option. "The case is closed," she said suggestively. "That means we can end the night having a lots of sex."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and lightly sighed.

"No. The case is not closed. I'm quite firm about my rules. We're still working here."

"Then I resign."

"From what?" Sherlock asked, barely stifling a laugh.

"From being your personal assistant."

"Oh, okay, fine. I'll let you know if I notice."

-o-

Violet stood by the car in the gravelled drive while Sara Holder fluttered about thinking of a dozen items she had forgotten to pack in her over-sized handbag. Kate Burnwell appeared just as flustered, calling out instructions to her sister about what to take, which places to shop in, eat at, and avoid, and making sure the driver knew when and where to retrieve them to bring them back home. All of her advice was met with an exaggerated rolling of the eyes and loud exhalations by the younger sister.

Sherlock Holmes stood by, hands shoved comfortably in his trouser pockets. Violet exchanged looks of amusement with him now and again. Kate was going to drive Sherlock to the Burnwell estate, only twenty minutes away, so the detective could have a chat to Anthony Holder. The young man had been staying with his best friend's parents, discreetly under 'house arrest' while this mess was sorted out without the involvement of the local constabulary. George Burnwell himself, had to leave the area on important business. Apparently.

"Perhaps I should come along after all," Kate said, as Sara flew by after the sudden realisation that she needed a large floppy hat to offer her some anonymity should she be photographed shopping with Violet Hunter from _Regency Road._

"Oh, what?" Sara exclaimed, stopping in her tracks.

This could be a spanner in the works, Violet thought. Sara Holder was unlikely to confide in the actress if her sister were present.

"Oh," volunteered Sherlock, feigning a look of disappointment. Violet knew that fake expression. "I thought you and I could venture into the village after visiting your brother. It's been an age since I was there."

Violet felt something twist inside her at the brightening of Kate's face in response to the half-smile Sherlock was offering his host, even though Violet knew Sherlock's charm to be false. The actress followed Kate Burnwell's movements back into the house through rapidly darkening eyes. Behind her, Sara called to Sherlock, in a low whisper, "Thank God for you, Mr Holmes!"

Violet refocussed her gaze onto Sherlock and gave him a tired smile. She turned to climb into the car after the young Ms Holder when Sherlock called to her. The detective slowly moved toward her, as she stopped and turned to him. Violet expected him to bid her a goodbye. Instead, he pulled up far too close for an acceptable employer-employee exchange of sentiment. It wasn't until one arm had banded around her, drawing her into his embrace, that she realised such innocuous courtesies were not his intention.

Sherlock dipped his head and pressed his mouth to Violet's before she could draw breath. His kiss was patient and sweet, with just a hint of tongue to convey an underlying restlessness. Violet's pulse began to race and her lips tingled underneath his.

But her muscles tensed and she couldn't relax into the kiss, despite the thrill she felt for Sherlock's spontaneous gesture. She'd had all of him last night, in the bath, out of the bath, and in the early hours of the morning when their bodies had naturally drifted together, half-awake, half-asleep. Why did a mere goodbye kiss reduce her to this? It was broad daylight, they were outside, and in the presence of Sara Holder and the driver. What was Sherlock thinking? Had the country air addled his brain?

Sherlock eased out of the kiss, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes seemed to dance in response to the effect he'd had on Violet. His expression gave Violet the answer she had been seeking. This was fake! Sherlock was play-acting once more. The kiss wasn't intended for her.

Sherlock kept his close proximity and murmured into her ear, "And now you have your own scandalous secret to confide." He drew back and added, "To get the conversation started."

"Kiss me again," Violet whispered. "I wasn't ready."

Sherlock merely chuckled and released her from his embrace.

"Enjoy your shopping day," he said at a louder volume, before he turned and left her standing by the car door.

Violet straightened her shoulders and drew in a calming breath. She had a role to play, Sherlock had given her direction, and now she must deliver and earn her keep as his assistant. Violet vaguely wondered what kind of things Sherlock had made John Watson do in the past.

As she took her seat and fiddled about with the seat belt, Violet could feel Sara's eyes boring into her. Obviously the young woman had witnessed the kiss and was willing Violet to say something about it by her stares alone. Violet avoided making eye contact as if she were uncomfortable. Before the car had even left the estate, Sara found her voice.

"Did he... are you?"

Violet slowly turned to her and gave Sara a sheepish smile.

"We've been in a relationship for quite some time," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. Then she reached over and gripped Sara's hand. "But nobody knows. You have to swear not to tell anybody."

Sara's eyes widened even further.

"Of course I won't," the young woman said determinedly.

Violet withdraw her hand and made to gaze out of the window. She said, darkly, "Because his parents won't approve of him dating an actress."

Beside her, Violet heard Sara's sharp intake of breath. This was going to work wonderfully, Violet thought. Sherlock was a genius. This was why he was paid the big money.

Violet wondered if she should burst into tears.

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

Credit to ACD, of course, for _The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet_ , on which I loosely, and rather poorly, based this case.


	23. This is Your Heart

**Chapter 22 -** **This Is Your Heart**

Sherlock leant against a pillar, eyeing the departure boards, wondering if he had time to duck outside for a cigarette. He'd forgotten to bring nicotine patches on their trip north. Or Violet had forgotten. She was loosely regarded as his personal assistant, after all.

Every minute that ticked by with Violet not making an appearance would lead Sherlock to mentally select the next train departing Manchester Piccadilly for London. Or Birmingham. He couldn't decide on a train either. It was probably a good thing that he had solved the case, because using his brain when he was going into nicotine withdrawal was an exercise in frustration.

Violet had sent him a text shortly after she had received confirmation that Sara was having an affair with Burnwell. To her credit, it had only been half an hour into the car journey. In the meantime, the detective had spoken to the accused, Anthony Holder. Initially it seemed a waste of time, at least while Kate was in the room. After Sherlock requested a moment to speak to the young man alone, he was able to get Anthony to confess all he knew. The case was complete.

Sherlock successfully avoided accompanying Kate into the village with the excuse that he had to discuss important matters with her father. In private. The detective gave poor Alexander Holder every last detail of the case. He would leave the decision in the Holder patriarch's hands as to how to handle his family. Mr Holder could discreetly talk to his son, and urge him to insist that George Burnwell return the collection with no further action. Contemplating the alternative had left the man broken-hearted.

Sherlock had left the Holder estate to an eternally grateful Member of Parliament. Kate Burnwell had tried to hide her disappointment at his departure.

He glanced at his watch once more. Other commuters moved about him, while some stood alone or in groups _waiting_ for something as he was. The detective's fingers twitched due to inactivity, and he glanced toward the exits. Surely he didn't have to _see_ Violet in order to meet up with her. Whose stupid idea was that? Oh, yes mine, he thought to himself. A perfectly reasonable decision. He hadn't been able to contact Violet by phone, which, in itself should've been cause for alarm had Violet not already acted cagey about the address of the place she was going to visit. She'd mentioned Emily, or Em, several times, so it was quite obvious in Sherlock's mind that the girl in the photo that Violet carried in her purse was the same one she was going to visit this afternoon. _Lettie and Em. Heroin chic._

But they were supposed to meet at the station at four. He had both Violet's and his suitcases. She had left hers at the house rather than take it shopping with her. It was now four forty-three. And Violet's phone went straight to her messages. Sherlock left his post, took both suitcases in hand, and strode determinedly in the direction of the Sainsbury's local he'd spied earlier. He'd buy a packet of cigarettes, have a smoke outside, and stop worrying about each train that departed without them. Violet would have to contact _him._

Sherlock hadn't progressed very far in his bid for nicotine when he spied a figure across the station who definitely did not _look_ like Violet Hunter, but curiously walked exactly like her. The person's face was obscured by a hoody, an old, well-worn article of clothing, and certainly one that Violet didn't own, to the best of the detective's knowledge. And that knowledge was _vast._ He'd mentally catalogued every item of clothing in an effort to help his girlfriend choose outfits for this and that and other random occasions. It helped with her stress levels now and again. She was always proclaiming, "I have nothing to wear!"—a statement Sherlock found completely ridiculous when she'd be standing in a room littered with garments.

Sherlock followed the figure to platform ten. _Where was she going?_ He hung back a little when the _Violet-like_ person walked determinedly past the travel information office and beyond. When she disappeared into the left luggage office, the beginnings of a smile played on his lips. He had deduced her plans for the afternoon. Sherlock returned to the main station concourse and waited near the bread shop where he had a good view of the entrance to the toilets.

Within a few minutes, Violet emerged carrying her large handbag that Sherlock identified as one definitely owned by his girlfriend. So Sherlock would wait here, while the hooded grey caterpillar transformed into the butterfly that was the _Regency Road_ actress. She'd have to come back this way anyway, after using the facilities, the detective mused.

Sherlock deduced that Violet had left all her expensive belongings—the clothes and shoes she'd worn shopping and her phone—in her bag and had deposited it in the left luggage office for storage, before visiting her friend in her seedy dwelling without having to carry anything valuable that could be pawned for drug money. Sherlock shuddered to think that there could've been a previous visit that had now prompted the actress to take such precautions.

Tapping his fingers together again, he heaved a sigh for the lost opportunity for a nicotine fix.

Minutes later, another person passed him by, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mentally searching his identity database for a match. His eyes widened in alarm when the file was retrieved.

Danny _Something._ Jake Venucci's _Thingamy_! Kabuki Pirates. Nightclub. Office. _You shouldn't be in here,_ the man had said to Sherlock upon finding the detective locking lips with his newly reconciled girlfriend in the nightclub manager's office.

Sherlock followed at a safe distance. Jake's offsider was also heading in the direction of the toilets. Coincidence? No idle time for the universe today.

He narrowed the distance between himself and Danny when Violet herself emerged from around the corner in all her usual Violet-y glory. She stopped short upon seeing Danny, and then Sherlock some distance behind.

"Dan—" she gasped as the young man enveloped her in his arms. "I... ah..." Violet briefly returned the hug as Sherlock approached. She gave her boyfriend a wan smile over Danny's shoulder. Pushing lightly on her friend to release her from his embrace, she added, "I've never introduced you two properly before."

Danny turned in the direction of Violet's gaze, his brow initially furrowed at Violet's words. Sherlock tried to keep his own expression light, almost pleasant, while his heart tripped over itself. The big brother in his Mind Palace stood by with his ever faithful assistant, Mind Palace Anthea (how did _she_ get there?), who stood poised to take notes on this encounter. Unfortunately, Mind Palace John Watson also decided to join the mental surveillance party and said, _Try not to think about the two in bed together._

 _Yes, thank you, Doctor Watson_ , bid Mind Palace Mycroft.

Violet addressed both men. "Sherlock, Danny."

To his credit, Sherlock thought, Danny immediately offered his hand to the detective. Sherlock closed his over the young man's. Danny bid Sherlock the customary Northern, "All right?" which didn't really require a verbal response on Sherlock's part. Both parties' reciprocal looks conveyed the same intent—this cordiality was for Violet and Violet only, and the handshake that was exchanged between the pair was less of a greeting and more of a promise to remain forever wary around each other.

"Do y'mind?" Danny bid Sherlock once they'd dropped hands. "Just wanna have a word," he added, indicating Violet with a nod of his head.

"We don't have time," Violet said, rushing in with her response before Sherlock could offer his. "We have to—"

"It's fine, Violet," the detective added.

Sherlock could feel the conflict in his mind. It appeared to rise along with the ache in his heart. On the one hand, he wanted to stay and interrogate this man on all he knew about Jake Venucci and his business dealings; on the other, the presence of an ex-lover of Violet's—no matter how brief their encounter—made adrenalin surge through his veins. _Fight or flight?_ If Violet were in any danger, of course he would stay. But witnessing Violet's obvious affection for the man and vice versa meant Sherlock wanted to get as far away from the source of his discomfort. So... _flight_ then.

But before he could step away, Violet had slipped a hand into his and held him there.

"Whatever stupid, cowardly message you've got from Jake," Violet began, fixing steely eyes onto Danny, "you can say in front of Sherlock." Her grip tightened on the detective's hand.

Danny smiled awkwardly at Violet's words and rubbed a hand to the back of his neck.

"Oh, yeah. Right, then," he said, rearranging his stance.

Sherlock narrowed his own gaze, ready to read between the lines of Venucci's message. Relief surged through him at Violet's gesture. But more importantly, how did the organised crime figure know that Violet was even in Manchester?

"He wants to say he's sorry," Danny began, "and he would himself if only you'd unblock his number."

"Not going to happen," Violet replied. "I don't want to speak to him."

"Never?" Danny asked.

"It's too soon."

 _Too soon,_ Sherlock repeated in his mind with hateful curiosity. So there'd be some time in the future when she _would_ speak to her ex-boyfriend? What was this continual cycle of forgiveness she had for the man?

"But while you're here," Violet continued, "Why don't you tell us who Jake's working for?"

Sherlock's ears pricked up in interest. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding with... what was that... _pride? …_ for his girlfriend seizing the opportunity to gather information.

"Truth be told, I don't know meself," Danny replied.

Sherlock knew in an instant that the young man wasn't lying… which begged the question: why was he being kept out of the loop, if he were Jacob Venucci's right hand?

"Why?" Violet demanded of Danny.

Sherlock found himself squeezing Violet's hand in approval.

"It's business, Vi. Pure and simple."

"But—"

"Best be off," Danny said, taking a step away from the couple. He looked pointedly at Violet and said, "Give the man a chance, yeah?"

"Danny."

"But look out for number one," Danny added with a wink. He nodded to Sherlock and hastily departed, walking swiftly back to the main concourse.

Violet dropped Sherlock's hand and turned to him.

"I'm sorry. That was a bit awkward. Hello."

She offered him a weak smile, rose onto her toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

Sherlock found his voice at last.

"So what was the sequence of events: did you have casual sex with Danny before or after your relationship with Jake?" Ignoring the stunned look on his girlfriend's face, he added, "Or during?"

"Don't do that!" Violet snapped.

"Your body language toward each other just screams 'affair.' I can't help noticing."

"But you _can_ help voicing your thoughts."

"Not really."

Violet brushed past Sherlock and moved toward their luggage.

"How was your… visit?" he asked, thinking he should at least change the subject.

"Awful."

Sherlock exhaled in resignation as Violet snapped up the handle of her pull-along. So she was going to be in a mood.

"I'll carry that," he volunteered, making a concerted effort to keep his tone light and accommodating. He was still learning to navigate these turbulent waters of their relationship, and doing a pretty excellent job so far.

"I'm not fucking helpless."

Perhaps a mediocre job so far then. A bit more to learn, as it turns out.

Sherlock let Violet get a head start before he, too, began to walk toward the main concourse. Up ahead, Violet paused as if in thought, then turned back to Sherlock, waiting for him to catch up.

"Where are we going?" she asked. No. _Demanded_.

"I was going to pose the same question."

"Why?" Violet asked, waves of irritation radiating from her like a nuclear isotope. "I didn't buy the tickets."

"Neither have I. You wanted me to work on the Lauren Myrtle case, so I thought we could go via Birmingham."

"I don't care about Lauren fucking Myrtle."

And with that parting sentiment, Violet took off in the direction of the ticketing office.

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

He was reaching his own level of frustration with Violet's see-sawing moods. He increased his stride so that he was walking beside her.

"Wait a minute," he said. "I thought you cared if your friend was dating a potential murderer?"

Violet stopped in her tracks and turned all her attention to Sherlock.

"Nope," she stated emphatically. "She could be dating Jack the Ripper for all I care. I've got my own relationship problems to deal with."

She left Sherlock standing alone, with the detective contemplating whether or not he was the relationship problem that had to be dealt with. Concluding—and _hoping_ —that Violet must have been referring to those Northern idiots, he resumed walking and joined his girlfriend at a self-service ticketing machine.

"Why don't you go have a cigarette?" she said as she punched in her selection. Pausing, she looked up at Sherlock and smiled sweetly. "I forgot to pack your patches. You must be feeling irritable by now?"

"Yes, I am," he replied, puzzled by her seemingly psychotic mood swings. _And not because of a nicotine withdrawal._

"Leave your suitcase with me then," she said, her eyes back on the screen. "I'll book the 5:35."

Sherlock deposited his luggage next to Violet's and swiftly vacated the area lest Violet change her mind. Or her mood. Five minutes later, while he was at the self-service machine at a pharmacy buying nicotine patches, he received a text from Violet.

 _Platform 14_ , it read, followed by an _X_.

So he was back in the good books, then, however brief the categorisation.

He found his girlfriend standing on the platform with both suitcases on either side of her, looking down at her phone and chuckling to herself. When Sherlock stood beside her, she held out her phone in front of him as if he'd been there the entire time.

"Look what Spencer sent me," she said, in between laughs.

Sherlock knitted his brows together as his eyes scanned the screen.

 _You know you're an actor when_ … the message began. Something about _character studies_ and _not really listening to your friends' problems_ …

Sherlock hummed in vague acknowledgement. He didn't get it, nor did he care. Violet withdrew her phone and continued to scroll, emitting tiny chuckles as she read more poignant words written in fancy typography overlaying photos of cute animals, thoughtful people, or majestic landscapes. So she was on Tumblr then, he concluded.

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he drew it out of his pocket. He quickly scanned the message from Alexander Holder, updating the detective on his decision. George Burnwell would be warned to stay away from Sara Holder otherwise his own parents would be informed of his illegal gambling, resulting in him being cut from the family fortune most likely. Alexander Holder would also ensure that none of the Holder fortune could ever solely end up in Burnwell's hands, through either his wife or his children. Once those legal caveats were in place, Mr Holder would inform his eldest daughter of all that had occurred there.

So Burnwell would have neither Holder sister, Sherlock concluded as he pocketed his phone. Probably a good thing there. But why stop with the Holder women? Why not swear off all women for good? With this in mind, the detective cast a sideways glance at his girlfriend.

Why was _he_ even in a relationship with a woman? Why had he fought so strongly to win her back? Had he realised just what he was letting himself in for? The _drama,_ the widely varied moods, the demands. She wasn't even his intellectual equal.

Violet shuffled closer to the Consulting Detective, her attention remaining fixed on her phone. She curled an arm through his, then leant against him, as if he were a pillar. The scent of her shampoo tickled his nostrils, sending off a chain reaction of messages to his Mind Palace, ending with the deciphering of a complex set of encryption keys, effectively unlocking his heart.

His vagus nerve, Sherlock's _heart string,_ was finely tuned to Violet's entire being. Her presence tweaked it now. Sherlock could explain the physiological reactions and the brain chemicals released to contribute to the partner preference phase in the biological basis of love he had spouted to John Watson seemingly a lifetime ago. But why should he?

Violet snorted out a tiny laugh and hugged into Sherlock's arm as she continued to read amusing snippets on her phone. She straightened up, released her grip on his arm, and without further thought, threaded her fingers through his.

Sherlock's heart rate accelerated. The answer was here in the warmth of her touch, the way she molded perfectly to him. Not just physically, but in every other aspect of her being.

Violet dropped the hand that was holding her phone and twisted her body around to face Sherlock, as if she could sense his internal struggle. A smile ghosted her lips and she stood on her toes, clutching his jacket lapels for support.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she whispered. "I think I must be premenstrual."

"Yes. My thoughts exactly," Sherlock replied, looking down at her through narrow eyes.

Violet chuckled and attempted to narrow the gap between them, but Sherlock held two fingers against her lips before they could connect with his.

"You already know my thoughts on public displays of affection," he remarked evenly.

Beneath his fingers, Violet's lips stretched into a smile, and she lowered herself to her heels as Sherlock dropped his hand. Suddenly, Violet rose up again, and gave Sherlock a quick peck on his cheek. Chuckling lightly in triumph, she turned back to her phone.

It all made sense to Sherlock now, as his body reacted unfavourably to her craftiness. It was more than the thrill of the chase and the blood pumping through his veins. The mental challenge of puzzling cases, and the physical threat to his being of the more dangerous engagements took care of only one aspect in his life. The internal struggles with the tangling of emotions due to Violet entering his heart, combined with the delight and energy she brought by elevating trivialities and humming with the vibrancy afforded by the mediocre, gave him a new dimension of existence, a new zest for the everyday.

It was here that Sherlock realised he would prefer to live in battle with Violet Hunter for the rest of his life, than to co-exist in peaceful harmony with either anyone or no one else.

-oOo-


	24. Back on the Sauce

**Chapter 23 – Back on the Sauce**

"So everybody clear?" John asked, his eyes darting from person to person as he smiled inwardly at his own brilliant plan.

"I really don't think this is decent," Mrs Hudson lamented.

"It's all right, Mrs Hudson," Greg Lestrade reassured the landlady. "John can drink for you when it's your turn." He ended his statement with a wink.

Molly Hooper piped up then, her brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't get the difference between his frown and his not impressed look," she said. "Can't I just have him whispering something to Violet?"

"Okay, okay," John said, spreading out his hands as the rest of the group all began to talk at once. Each person had their own interpretation of the absent Consulting Detective's looks and expressions. "Let's start again."

"Turn the telly off John," Mary suggested. "It won't be on for ages."

"Right," said the ex-army doctor, puffing out his chest before clicking off Mrs Hudson's telly with the remote control. "I think allocating the more frequent and likely expressions to Greg and I will mean we get to do most of the drinking, okay?"

Mrs Hudson rose from the seat of her favourite armchair, her mouth turned down at the edges.

"I don't see why we have to play a drinking game at all," she said.

John Watson gestured widely at the telly and replied, with restrained impatience, "Because watching the entire telecast of the TELSAs without drinking would be mind-numbingly boring."

"Well, I'm going to get the nibbles," Mrs Hudson announced to the room at large before making her way to her kitchen. She called back, "Nobody should be drinking on an empty stomach."

John exhaled heavily in her wake. "Okay, let's go over it again." He turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Greg, you'll down it if we see Sherlock frowning? That's when he gets those little creases in his brow."

"He also looks like that if he's concentrating," Molly volunteered.

"It still counts," John replied. He cleared his throat then continued. "I'll chug if he has no expression at all. And you, Molly?"

"If we see him whispering anything to Violet," the pathologist replied with a resigned smile.

"Good! Mary?"

"Smiling?" she offered. "But would he smile in public?"

"A fake, forced smile is fine," John reassured her. "Or a grimace. It's the same thing really."

Greg laughed and said, "Yeah, like when a grateful banker gives him a tie pin as a thank you present."

John chuckled lightly at the memory, then added, "And I think we can all neck it for Mrs Hudson if he gives Violet a kiss."

The landlady returned at that stage, carrying two plates piled high with cheese and biscuits. She asked, "Why would he kiss Violet on national TV?"

"If she wins an award, they might show him doing that," Mary suggested.

"Well I think we need a double category if we catch him headbutting someone," the Scotland Yard DI remarked. "Hell, I'll down an entire bottle to see that!" Lestrade raised his glass and laughed.

"Hmm, yes," John mused, taking a seat next to Mary. "Sherlock giving someone an earful. That's highly likely. Not sure they'll air that though."

John stared with interest as the DI drained the rest of his glass. It was still early, and the senior detective was giving himself a head start. Lestrade had been quite dubious when John had told him that his favourite Consulting Detective could possibly appear on national telly escorting a soapie actress to an awards ceremony. Greg had turned up at 221A Baker Street still not believing John's assertion even though he knew that Sherlock was dating Violet Hunter once more. After Mary and Mrs Hudson had assured him it was true, Greg then proceeded to text everyone in the CID to get them to watch the broadcast that evening.

"Right then," Mary said. "Is there anything else to bring in, Mrs Hudson? John will help you."

"How long to go now?" Molly asked John, as Mary prodded her fiancé into action.

John rose from his seat and replied, "Sherlock just texted me that Violet and her co-stars are getting photos done in the hotel lobby while they wait for the limos." He crossed the living room after Mrs Hudson and added, "Ages yet. Oh..." He turned around and announced, "Sherlock said to check twitter as someone called Priyal Gorham is constantly uploading photos. There's a TELSAs hashtag apparently."

John chuckled as he left the room. He typed out a message in reply to Sherlock.

"Right then," Molly said as she glanced around Mrs Hudson's sitting room. "Does Mrs Hudson have a computer?"

"I'll go get Sherlock's from upstairs," Mary replied, rising from her seat. "Back in a tick."

-o-

Sherlock lounged in Bar Avalon in the Hotel Sydney watching with interest the antics of the _Regency Road_ stars, studio executives, and their various partners. Some, like him, took to the comfy sofas, drinks in hand, steeling themselves for the night ahead. Violet was getting her photo taken for the umpteenth time. She looked over at Sherlock and smiled.

At that moment, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

 _What's happening? —JW_

Sherlock rapidly typed out a reply.

 _Violet and co. are having their photos taken. Waiting for limos. I'm drinking. —SH_

Then he added, _Check twitter. Priyal Gorham keeps uploading photos to #telsas #reggieroad (That's Regency Road TELSAs, if you didn't know) —SH_

 _Send us a photo. —JW_

 _Of Priyal? —SH_

 _Of you and Violet, ya nob! —JW_

Sherlock frowned at his friend's insult as Violet sank down on to the sofa next to him.

"Having fun?" he asked her, pocketing his phone and smiling broadly. He stretched out an arm to rest on the back of the sofa behind her.

Violet took one look at her glassy-eyed boyfriend, whose smile was just that little too wide for an unsociable genius, and she frowned.

"Sherlock! You can't get drunk right now," she said to him in a loud whisper. "It's going to be a really, really long night! I need you to be..."

"What?"

"...on your best behaviour," she finished, brushing imaginary fluff from Sherlock's lapels.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said through slitted eyes. "But you do know that you've got me surrounded by the dullest, most idiotic, boring samples of humanity. They're vapid..."

"Sherlock."

"...boring... did I already say boring?"

"Sherlock."

"So how am I supposed to exist amongst this..." he said, sweeping an arm around the room in a wide arc, "...without committing homicide, or deducing everybody's shadowy secrets, since you gave me explicit instructions not to, hmm? I needed something to dull the pain of existence."

Violet narrowed her eyes at him and said, "You know _I'm_ included in your dull, boring samples of humanity. These are _my_ people."

"No, no, no. You're nothing like _them._ "

"Yes, I am."

Sherlock grasped Violet's hand and placed it over his heart.

"No, because you're Violet Hunter, and I keep you in here." Violet's expression softened a little at this gesture. Then Sherlock released her hand and tapped his temple. "And you're firmly installed in here." Violet emitted a chuckle as Sherlock closed his hand over Violet's once more. "And I don't know how you got there," he said through narrow eyes, "but I'm going to find out."

Violet continued to laugh, before stretching forward and planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"You can be really romantic when you want to be," she whispered.

"I'm really not," he said, tiny creases appearing in his brow. "I'm actually a complex, finely-tuned instrument, that you've somehow learnt to play."

She laughed again, then leant closer to Sherlock. Keeping her voice to a confidential whisper, she said, "Then you'd better take care of yourself, because if you drink any more, no matter how much I fiddle with it, your _finely-tuned instrument_ is just not going to play sweet music for me while its owner is in a drunken state."

With a light chuckle, Violet rose from her seat as Priyal Gorham and another _Regency_ staple, Chelle Kriegan, beckoned her over for photos. Violet gave Sherlock a quick wink before she left him alone on the sofa once more.

"Wait. What?" he asked her vacated space. What was she referring to specifically? His _what_?

Sherlock sank into the back of the sofa and watched as Violet cavorted with her co-stars while they took numerous selfies. He reflected on that fact that he didn't feel the need to take back what he had said in the hotel room earlier that afternoon. Violet's reaction, although initially puzzling to the detective-genius, had been quite possibly on the positive side. Definitely on the positive side.

Sherlock had been waiting for Violet to return from her studio pampering session at the hotel. Violet had made what was presumably a grand entrance upon which Sherlock was supposed to issue compliments. He didn't.

"Hello," he had bid her. "I just have to get my jacket on," he'd added, thinking he now needed to be as completely dressed as she was. He had strode toward her, Violet in her _Hanna Perino_ lux chiffon gown in Venetian gold, Sherlock clad only in his _Trevor & Vernet _dress shirt and trousers, with his bow-tie hanging loosely about his neck. He aimed to give Violet a kiss in greeting, but his girlfriend felt it necessary to prompt him.

"What do you think? Do… you think I look beautiful?" she asked curiously.

"Ah… no."

He had not started drinking at this stage. His mind had been as sharp as a tack—his response, spontaneous and truthful. To his girlfriend's credit, she didn't explode. It was almost as if she had been half expecting this response.

And so he had ventured forth with an explanation, because Violet _loves_ to hear his postulations.

"I think you're beautiful when you don't wear makeup, more specifically how you look first thing in the morning, in the few seconds before you're fully awake. Your hair is often in disarray and you get those little creases right there..." Sherlock stretched out a hand and pressed the tip of his index finger between Violet's brows, "...because you don't want to be woken up at that moment. Usually my bedsheets are tangled around your naked body, having pulled them from me during the night. When you say my name on an exhale and shuffle closer to me, my brain releases a variety of chemicals, including, but not limited to, serotonin and dopamine. Physiologically, my body knows that I have chosen you above all others to be my partner. At the feel of your warm breath fluttering across my neck, my heart-rate increases, and I quite often long to preserve that moment. Perhaps in a jar of alcohol—isopropyl, not ethanol. That wouldn't be a good choice for you. But this…" Sherlock paused, not to draw breath but to wave a hand over Violet's attire, "…is not beautiful. This is Violet Hunter: Gift-wrapped."

Throughout this rather detailed explanation, Sherlock had not failed to notice the widening and moistening of Violet's eyes. Sure signs of _something_. But when she silently threw her arms around him and held fast for a bewilderingly long twenty-six seconds, he had come to the conclusion that it was all okay.

He then heard a tiny sniff and she said, "Thank you. I'd better go check if my mascara really is waterproof."

She had released him without making eye contact and had made a beeline for the hotel bathroom.

In the meantime, Sherlock had drifted over to the entrance mirror and stood scowling at the bow-tie he had still yet to fasten.

 _Now who's going to look gift-wrapped_ , he thought in disdain.

When there came a gentle tap on the hotel door, Violet had bustled past him, all well-composed and sparkly again.

"Don't put your jacket on just yet," she had bid him as she made to open the door. "Gordon's here. And he's going to do something amazing with your hair."

Back in the lobby, Sherlock blinked slowly as Violet made her way toward him, having helped fulfil her co-stars' Instagram requirements. He struggled a little to rise to his feet.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked.

"John wanted a photo of you and I together," he said, waving his phone at her.

"Oh, good," Violet replied, her eyes lighting up. "I wanted a photo of us, but I didn't think you'd cooperate."

"I'm feeling very accommodating at the moment," Sherlock replied, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

Violet wasn't exactly happy with that expression, but before she could remind her boyfriend again that he should stop drinking, Sherlock had called over a passerby and had asked the gentleman if he could take their photo. Sherlock couldn't be sure, but he thought Violet had choked out a _No!_ beside him. Too late now. Sherlock had already handed over his phone and the guy was more than happy to take a snap. Sherlock thanked the man while Violet gushed out a profuse apology along with another thank you.

 _Overkill_ , thought Sherlock.

"Do you know who that was?" Violet whispered fiercely as Sherlock tutted at the photo on his screen.

"No. Should I? I'll send this to John anyway, even though it's quite appalling. You look half terrified."

"Sherlock, that was Simon Langhom, the DOP. And I don't look terrified."

"Yes, you do," he said matter-of-factly, while composing a message to his former flatmate. "What's a DOP anyway?"

"Director of Photography," Violet replied, and she scowled as Sherlock hit _Send_.

"Shocking," Sherlock remarked, pocketing his phone. "I wouldn't let him anywhere near a camera. Do you think we could get some crisps?"

-o-

Mrs Hudson gasped as John held out his phone to the group, chuckling a little as he did so.

The DI peered over the landlady's shoulder, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What the…?"

"What's he done to his curls?" asked Molly.

"That ain't Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade remarked, finding his voice at last.

"Aw," said Mary, her expression softening with affection. "What an elegant-looking couple."

"So dashing," the landlady murmured.

"How she got him to dress up like that is beyond me," John volunteered.

Greg Lestrade chuckled as he drew out his own phone. He said, "Could you forward that to me, John? I need to send it to a few people."

"And she looks lovely for once," Mrs Hudson added.

"She always looks lovely," Mary remarked.

"Oh, no," Mrs Hudson said, "You should see her 'round here. And the _mess_ upstairs."

"Well I think the first drink goes to you, Mary," John said, as he tapped away at his phone in his bid to send the photo on to the Scotland Yard DI, "since Sherlock's smiling."

Mary narrowed her eyes at her fiancé. She said, "I thought we were only doing that during the telecast."

"Let's all have a drink," Greg Lestrade said, raising his glass which was already half full of whiskey. "To a slick Sherlock Holmes in a bow-tie."

-o-

"And they dumped the bodies in the Sylvanian River, where they floated downstream into a..."

Violet turned in alarm in Sherlock's direction. She thought she'd left her boyfriend in the safe hands of the two _Regency Road_ seniors, who wouldn't pay too much attention to the detective's ramblings due to their eagerness to tell their own stories. But there stood Meredith Bourkely, Violet's on-screen mother, and her faithful sidekick, Annabeth Minogue at the bar, both enraptured by the Consulting Detective's retelling of his favourite cases.

Violet silently gestured to Sherlock to join her as she left the company of her other co-stars. Sherlock graciously apologised to his new fanbase, requesting they excuse him for a moment, before he made his way over to his girlfriend.

"We'll be leaving soon," Violet said once he'd joined her. "Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"Do I?"

"I don't know how much you've had to drink, and there may be a long wait once we're in the limo."

Violet crossed her arms in front of her, a sure sign that no correspondence would be entered into.

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Good point. I'd better go now then." He kissed Violet on the cheek then added, "This is fun!"

 _Oh my dear God_ , thought Violet as he left.

It was going to be a very long night, on top of an already exhausting week. Was Sherlock Holmes really up to this?

-oOo-


	25. You're This Far From Famous

**Chapter 24** **\- You're This Far From Famous**

During the week leading up to the TELSAs, every time Violet's phone had rung with an unidentified number, she thought it could be Jake. Sherlock, of course, had noticed her apprehension, and finally told her to store the numbers in her phone so she'd have a better chance at identifying who was calling next time. It turned out the repeated callers belonged to only two parties that she should've stored in her contacts anyway: another assistant to Polly Stoper, Violet's talent agent, and the studio's publicist, whose name kept eluding Violet. And she was usually very good with names. It must be the stress, she had thought.

The phone calls resulted in a handful of pre-TELSA interviews, the knowledge of which bemused Sherlock. Two of them were to take place in coffee shops, and Violet had fluttered about wondering what to wear, and should she order tea or coffee, and if she did, should she drink it in front of them? It was the teaspoons, you see, she'd explained to Sherlock. She might sip from her teaspoon. It was a bad habit, she knew, and one she did without thinking. Sherlock had just rolled his eyes and tutted, returning to his microscope, doing his best to ignore Violet.

And then there was the annoyingly casual attitude Sherlock had taken in regard to picking up his tuxedo. Violet had stressed that he should keep on top of these things, because she didn't know how he had managed to request a bespoke suit with only one week's notice when Spencer had to order one a month ago. She had become frustrated by Sherlock's enigmatic smile and kept threatening to buy him one off the rack.

He had replied indifferently, "Look, do that if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I won't be needing it."

Violet hadn't gone shopping for a backup suit, because she'd been far too busy anyway. But while she was out on Friday, firstly to attend a group interview on Brekky TV for _Regency Road's_ nominated actors, and later getting her hair dyed back to her natural shade of blonde having shot her last scenes, apparently Victor Trevor from _Trevor & Vernet_ had personally come around to the flat for Sherlock's final fitting, with assurances that the suit would then be delivered to the hotel on Saturday.

Violet didn't get to see the suit in advance, and Sherlock _had not commented on her hair._

"But what if it doesn't match?" Violet had asked Sherlock, referring to her gown and his tux.

"An award-winning fashion designer has ensured that it does, Violet. Stop worrying about nothing. And don't think I haven't noticed your hair. Just remember that I never fail to tell you anything I dislike in the most brutal and succinct manner possible. The fact that I've said nothing should tell you that I view your colour change in a positive light."

"What?"

"It softens your face. And anything that achieves that feat can only be a good thing in my book."

Violet had struggled with curbing her growing annoyance, but she managed to disengage. She silently shot Sherlock a look then had retreated to his bathroom, disrobed and drew herself a hot bath. There she stayed for over an hour, even going so far as to let some of the water out and refill it so that it stayed at a comfortable temperature. She had known that Sherlock's remarks were probably as complimentary as they were going to get, but she had still wanted to remove herself from his company before _she_ said something she'd regret.

Sherlock did brave an appearance eventually, asking if she'd like a cup of tea, or would she prefer him? One corner of his mouth had quirked into a smile indicating all sorts of promises if only she'd take him up on his offer. She declared that she'd consumed more than enough of caffeinated drinks that day, and not so much of a detective-genius.

Sherlock's smile had spread across his face at her response and he said he'd just go lock all the doors. That statement alone gave Violet shivers. It meant that Sherlock was in one of _those_ moods. And she would be the sole beneficiary, of this she was sure.

But his casual attitude had extended into the next day, the day of the TELSAs. Naturally, this had caused Violet even more stress, despite his selfless attention to her needs the night before. Violet had to be at the hotel hours earlier, as the studio had provided a whole day of pampering for their nominated stars and studio executives, which included hair, make-up, massages, manicures and pedicures, lunch and gift bags.

On her departure from the flat, Violet had called out to Sherlock to remember to bring her overnight bag, as well as purchase for her a little purse pack of tissues in case she became emotional later. She should've known his response of "mm" meant he hadn't been listening. Would she never learn?

But perhaps Sherlock hadn't been so relaxed after all. Once Gordon had attended to Sherlock's hair and had left them alone for the few minutes before they were required in the hotel lobby downstairs, Sherlock had begun pacing—one sure sign that he was now entering meltdown mode himself. Violet had witnessed this once before: just before Alice's play when Sherlock confessed that he was unable to attend the theatre because, he had said, it was "too contrived, full of idiots, and devoid of all that's disturbing and evil in this world and therefore excruciatingly painful to watch."

Violet had thought she'd circumvent his possible meltdown by suggesting he have one drink in the lobby while they waited for the limousines to arrive. Watching him return from the bathroom now, she wondered just how many drinks he'd managed to consume while she had been getting her photo taken. He _was_ having a good time, and that was the most alarming realisation of all.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked once he'd stopped in front of Violet.

"You look so handsome," she replied, reaching up to straighten the bow-tie that didn't need straightening.

"I know," Sherlock replied, his eyes dulled by inebriation.

Violet sighed, knowing that a return compliment would not be forthcoming.

"But know this," Sherlock said, bowing his head and speaking directly into Violet's ear. "I am the luckiest man here tonight."

Perhaps she was wrong about the return compliment. As he straightened up, Violet fixed her boyfriend with a tender loving smile and waited for further terms of endearment. But then he added, "So… is _snogging_ allowed in this… limo?"

"Sherlock! No!"

His face fell.

"Why not?"

"Because we're sharing a limo with—"

" _Sharing_?"

Violet should've known that her explanation about the day's logistics had fallen on deaf ears that morning. She'd already turned up to the hotel room to find that Sherlock had forgotten to bring her overnight bag along.

She sighed heavily, then continued. "Yes. Sharing. With Priyal and Chenoa and their dates. Although with Chenoa not being here yet, I don't know if we should wait for her."

"Chenoa? But that means… _WhatHisName_ …"

"Yes. Stuart Jire. If that's who she's bringing."

"No," Sherlock said, moving closer to Violet to speak at a confidential pitch. "That's not what I was going to say. That could mean she's no longer with him. Look."

They both turned to stare in the same direction at the exact moment that the studio's seediest executive, Stuart Jire, turned to face them. He gave a small wave in recognition and, to Violet's horror, made a beeline for them.

Sherlock stood taller and cleared his throat.

"Violet Hunter!" Jire said, waggling a finger at her as if she were a mischievous child. "Blonde again."

Violet ignored whatever that poor excuse for a compliment was (was it?) and quickly introduced Sherlock.

"Stuart Jire," the older man said, firmly shaking Sherlock's hand. Then he immediately turned back to the actress and added, with a wink, "Daisy Firmington." And then he left, immediately seizing another hapless young actor's hand and greeting him with "Stuart Jire." The studio executive left bemused actors in his wake as he pressed hands with everybody in the near vicinity.

"Fucking hell," Violet muttered.

"Daisy Firmington?" Sherlock asked.

"You know… _Black Daisy_? The password Alice chose for me when she created a fake Twitter account on my behalf?"

Sherlock knitted his brows together. "Mmm. I remember the password, but not its origin."

Violet exhaled deeply. It was a long story. Well, not that long—just.. stupid.

"Spence's brother, Jesse," she began. "You've never met him. He once mentioned that I look like this American actress called Daisy Firmington. She's dead, by the way. Died of a drug overdose…"

"Charming."

"And when I dyed my hair black for _Regency Road_ , Alice thought it would be funny to call me Black Daisy."

"Hilarious."

"I know. It's stupid, but she knew the whole Daisy Firmington thing annoyed me so she took great joy in giving me a new nickname."

"And Jire heard about this?"

"No. Not at all. He just thinks the same thing, independently."

"Right," said Sherlock, determinedly pulling out his phone.

"What?"

"Let's settle this once and for all."

Violet stood by patiently while she waited for Sherlock to navigate the internet on his phone. At that moment, Lila, Priyal's girlfriend, rushed up to them.

"The car's here," she bid Violet.

"But Chenoa…?" Violet replied.

Lila reassured Violet that Chenoa had just arrived and was waiting at the entrance with her date.

"Cute guy. Nice arse," Lila said, laughing. "She only met him a few days ago."

Lila turned and sped off ahead of them.

"Sherlock, come on!" Violet urged her boyfriend, gently tugging on his arm.

Sherlock allowed himself to be directed across the lobby as he deposited his phone back into his pocket. Violet clasped his hand and was walking at a break-neck speed for one so high in heel.

"I see it now," Sherlock ventured.

"What?" Violet said, pulling up at the hotel's revolving doors. There was a bit of a bottleneck with the group trying to exit.

"Why people say you resemble her."

"What?" Violet said again, half-distracted by the crowd. "Oh," she added, when she finally realised that Sherlock was referring to their previous topic of conversation.

"You look like Daisy Firmington when you do that fake smile," he explained.

"What fake smile?"

"The one you use on people you don't like."

It took a few seconds for Violet to register what Sherlock was saying. She gave him a tiny smile in response. Of course he knew how to read her expressions, on occasion. When it pertained to something _he'd_ done wrong, naturally he remained clueless. But he'd know when she felt uncomfortable in someone else's presence, and her accompanying expression wouldn't be a look she'd ever direct at him personally.

 _But these people..._ Violet quickly glanced around, her face leeching of colour. These people were her peers, mentors, bosses, and toughest critics. And there would be a theatre full of them. Her type of people, but not necessarily _with_ her. Quite possibly _against_ her, and scrutinising her.

Violet's chest began to feel tight and the surrounding air, oppressive. Her skin prickled and a flush crept across her cheeks. Violet knew that within a minute, she could succumb to a full-blown panic attack. It had happened on several occasions in her past. But in this moment, she felt Sherlock's hand grasp hers and squeeze. She looked up at him. He had a faint smile on his lips. _He knows exactly what I'm going through,_ she thought.

As the crowd of _Regency Road_ entertainment industry types squeezed through the revolving door, Violet concentrated on her breathing and the warmth of Sherlock's hand. When they reached the fresh air outside the hotel she inhaled deeply.

"You'll be fine," Sherlock murmured to her as they stopped on the pavement as the procession of limousines snaking their way along the hotel's driveway idled in front of them.

Violet leant in closer to Sherlock and felt his arm band around her. Of course she would be fine.

-o-

John Watson fiercely shushed everyone and said, "It's starting!" He reached over and un-muted the television.

"Oh, it's the red carpet!" Mrs Hudson said, stating the obvious. "Quick keep an eye out!"

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," the doctor reassured his former landlady. "Sherlock just texted. They're twenty minutes away, and they're in some sort of limousine queue."

The TELSAs telecast broke for advertisements, the last one in the segment being a trailer for _Regency Road._

"Oh," Molly Hooper exclaimed. "Is that the show she was on?"

"Have you never watched Regency Road, Moll?" Lestrade asked Sherlock Holmes's favourite pathologist.

They were seated together on one of Mrs Hudson's comfortable sofas. Molly wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

"I haven't seen it in years," Lestrade continued, stretching out his legs comfortably in front of him. "It's one of those shows you could miss for a whole decade, and when you catch it again, it's got the same people faffing about doing much the same thing."

Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue. "Oh, that's not really fair," she said, frowning at the Detective Inspector. "There are only three original characters left now that old Mr Pederson had a heart attack last month."

"You know," the DI said, ignoring his hostess's remark and punctuating the air with his glass as he propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa. "I wouldn't have recognised Violet on the show if John hadn't pointed her out to me."

"I think she plays the part well," Mary offered. "Petulant teenage girl, if a bit heavy on the eye-liner."

John Watson snorted at a recent memory, and said, "You've should've seen Sherlock poring over magazine pictures of her. Quite a bizarre sight really. Grown man. Teenage girl."

"Well I thought it was very sweet," Mrs Hudson said. "Keeping an eye on her like that. He even bought _me_ a magazine subscription to—"

"That wasn't for you, Mrs Hudson," John interjected, chuckling lightly.

"Well I give them a year," Lestrade declared.

There was an explosion of protests around the room, so the DI sought to explain himself.

"You know how these celebrity romances go. And Baker Street's finest has got an ego bigger than most of the celebrities on the telly. I can't see them lasting at all. Sorry, but it's best to be realistic about these things. Didn't they already break up after dating for like, what... two minutes?"

"That..." John began, pointing a finger into the air, "...wasn't because of anything either one of them did. Put that breakup down to an interfering sibling."

But Lestrade clearly wouldn't let the matter rest. He shrugged and said, "Look, I know Sherlock's a good man and all that, and I wish him the very best. I really do. I just don't think this relationship is a match made in heaven."

Mary leant forward in her seat and said, "You know, Greg, you really—"

"To be fair, I've only met Violet a couple of times..."

"Exactly," Mary remarked pointedly.

"But they're a bit like chalk and cheese aren't they?"

"Ah," Mrs Hudson added, tilting her head and bringing her hand to her throat. She stared thoughtfully into the air and said, dreamily, "That was the way with Frank and I."

Four pairs of eyes all widened simultaneously, and John hastened to exclaim, "Oh, is that Violet's limo?"

Of course it wasn't, but the doctor turned up the volume on the TV anyway as the presenters announced the arrival of a couple from a rival soap.

-o-

Sherlock struggled to recall a snippet, any snippet, of what Violet had possibly told him about the schedule for the evening. It was lucky that Priyal's girlfriend, Lila, was telling Chenoa's date, Rick, Mick or Dick—Sherlock couldn't remember, nor did he care—about what was required of the actors' escorts once they arrived at the theatre. Violet was staring silently out of the window, but she hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand once they'd seated themselves in the limousine.

By the time the car had inched forward alongside the theatre, excitement inside the limousine had reached a peak. Sherlock had successfully filtered most, if not all, of the enthusiastic conversation, except whenever Violet would contribute. Thankfully, his girlfriend kept her comments only one notch above delighted.

Sherlock examined the scene out of the car window, taking in the security and various event personnel standing by. A steward stood examining a clipboard in expectation of referencing the VIPs who were arriving in this particular vehicle. Behind the event personnel stretched the red carpet. _The red carpet,_ Sherlock noted, and until now, he had wondered why John Watson had made such a big deal about it. Because _up until now_ , Sherlock had just assumed that the carpet, regardless of colour, would be merely a surface upon which they'd tread from limousine door to theatre door. With the number of people milling about on said carpet and curiously another significant number restricted by barricades on either side, Sherlock couldn't even _see_ the theatre door.

Their limo door was opened by a steward, and prior to climbing out, Violet turned to Sherlock and said, "Are you right? Do you know where to go?"

"Yes. Perfectly fine," he answered.

 _Actors to the left, accessories to the right_ , he mused, as Violet, Priyal and Chenoa all climbed out to be set upon by meeters and greeters, while he, Lila, and Chenoa's anonymous date left the car via the right-hand side, and rounded the rear of the limo, before stepping up onto the pavement.

A steward directed Sherlock's group to stand on the left-hand side of the red carpet while the _Regency Road_ actresses posed for a photograph before a burly, bearded man in a long black coat. The photographer wore at least two other SLR cameras around in his neck in addition to the one he now pointed at Sherlock's girlfriend.

"And the circus begins," Lila murmured to Sherlock, while Chenoa's date craned his neck in order to see along the red carpet.

 _Circus, indeed,_ Sherlock thought, his stomach clenching in a mild horror.

-oOo-


	26. The Last Thing I Need is a Public Image

**Chapter 25 -** **The Last Thing I Need is a Public Image**

"Isn't that...?" Chenoa's date asked for the umpteenth time as he ogled celebrities along the red carpet. Sherlock had tuned the idiot out. At least Lila seemed to possess the same attitude as Sherlock in regard to the spectacle that was now laid out before them.

Sherlock watched in curious interest as Violet, Chenoa and Priyal signed autographs and posed for selfies with... _fans._ Is that what these strange creatures were? he asked himself. And they were kept behind barriers as if... Oh, Sherlock thought in distaste. He was on the side of the zoo enclosure. But he wasn't a zoo animal being gawked and yelled at. What was he? A... _handler?_

They'd progressed approximately ten metres along the red carpet when Sherlock's phone buzzed. He realised that he wasn't a part of the spectacle, so of course he could check his phone and nobody would care.

 _Where the hell are you? All we can see are Violet and her co-stars. —JW_

Sherlock looked around him. There was one camera trained on the stars that were climbing out of limousines, a roaming cameraman was focussed on the actors who were signing autographs, and there was a camera mounted on a moveable arm overhead.

He rapidly typed a message in reply.

 _If you can see Violet signing autographs, then I'm standing directly behind the cameraman. If you can see an overhead shot of the red carpet arrivals, then I'm standing on the left-hand side, near the first pillar. I am also diagonally behind the camera focussed on the cars. —SH_

Sherlock smiled as he read John's replies.

 _Nope. We're watching somebody else get interviewed. —JW_

 _Oh hang on. Can now see Chenoa and that other chick. Violet is out of focus further along. Give the cameraman a nudge, will ya! —JW_

Sherlock did no such thing except to tune out his immediate surroundings. If he had sought to listen to every voice that called for attention or deduce every person who wandered past him, he'd overload his system. On this occasion, it was better to filter everything.

Finally Violet and her co-stars were gently redirected from the fans by their allocated chaperone. Lila tugged at Sherlock's jacket sleeve.

"We can move now!" she bid him.

Violet was in the centre of the carpeted walkway and she glanced around. Her face lit up when she located Sherlock. She quickly joined him and slipped her hand in his.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Perfectly fine," he replied.

"You said that before."

"And my status hasn't changed," he said, accompanying his answer with a broad smile. "But you know we've only progressed less than twelve yards from where we started."

Violet's eyebrows arched in sympathy. "I'm sorry," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. Sherlock had to lip read. He couldn't hear anything above the din of the crowd surging around them.

"If we could just keep moving," Violet's chaperone bid them with a sense of urgency.

Sherlock walked hand in hand with Violet along the red carpet, keeping his focus on the end pillar. There was too much noise and movement going on around him. He really needed another drink.

The chaperone stopped them at a section where they were presented with a wall of photographers, all securely restrained behind their barriers, Sherlock noted in amusement. Another steward beckoned Violet forward and she was instructed to stand in several different places along the route and to pose for photos as her co-stars were doing ahead of her.

Sherlock followed his girlfriend's progress by moving slowly along the carpet himself, stopping occasionally by a pillar. It would've been a perfect time for a cigarette had smoking not been banned from events such as these.

Sherlock had retreated into his Mind Palace, searching for a way out of this maze of horror, when Violet had suddenly appeared in front of him. She guided him to a covered walkway and said, "Just the one lot, okay?"

Sherlock had no idea what it was she had proposed to him, having put the entire near vicinity on mute, until she had parked them in front of a wall bearing the TELSAs logo in a repeated pattern and facing another handful of photographers. The collective began snapping away before Sherlock could even determine at whom he should be focussing his gaze. He clenched his jaw. This wasn't fun.

"I just have a few interviews to do," Violet told him as they were directed to yet another bank of barricaded bodies. These ones were holding microphones accompanied by a mini-camera crew in some instances. "You know," Violet said, turning to face him. "You can continue on along the red carpet if you like, and wait for me in the foyer of the theatre?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I can?" he asked, feeling slightly annoyed that he didn't have this information sooner.

"Of course," Violet replied, shrugging lightly. "You've always had that option."

Sherlock detected a contradiction within Violet's shrug. Not as indifferent as she would like him to believe.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"You should go on ahead," she replied. "It might get a bit repetitive. I won't be too long."

"How about I stay for the first one, and then go?"

A smile grew on Violet's face and Sherlock knew he had given the correct response.

Violet was introduced to the first interviewer, after which Sherlock successfully tuned out. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket, so he took one step away from Violet, thinking he may have been in shot and he didn't want to be seen looking at his phone during his girlfriend's interview. He glanced at the screen.

 _Give us a smile, ya git! I'm trying to get Mary drunk! —JW_

-o-

Mrs Hudson's living room had exploded in a cacophony of cat calls and whistles before the call came to John and then Greg to down their drinks. Sherlock Holmes had appeared on national telly, next to Violet Hunter at the start of her interview. The detective wore an impassive expression (John Watson's cue to drink) until the aforementioned doctor decided to text his friend while he was on the telly. Cue Sherlock's frown when his phone vibrated, and a prompt for Greg Lestrade to neck it.

Violet was still being interviewed, but Sherlock was no longer in shot. Mrs Hudson weakly held out her glass and said, "I think I need another sherry." She had downed hers in the excitement and stress of seeing her lodger on TV and worrying that he may say or do something that was deemed rude or unacceptable.

-o-

Suddenly Violet had dropped Sherlock's hand and was turning around for the camera.

 _Oh,_ he thought in realisation. _Her dress_. They'd just asked who she was wearing and Violet had responded with _Hanna Perino,_ after which they'd asked to see it. Sherlock was thankful he now knew they were referring to the designer of her gown and not her hair extensions. Not that Violet wore extensions any more, he thought gratefully. Not since her visit to the hairdresser the day before.

"And I see you've made a match here," the interviewer said, and all eyes were on Sherlock. The woman was touching his pocket square. It was midnight blue with flecks of Venetian gold, just like Violet's dress.

"Oh yes," Violet replied for him as Sherlock frowned at the woman who was still running her fingers along the edge of the material. "Sherlock's dressed by _Trevor & Vernet_," Violet added proudly, curling her arm around his.

"Wonderful!" the interviewer exclaimed. She gave Sherlock a wink and said, "You'll have to twirl for us as well."

He looked her dead in the eye and intoned, "I don't... _twirl._ "

-o-

The air in the living room was dead still. Nobody had dared to breathe. The telecast had crossed to show more stars climbing out of limousines when John Watson snorted out a laugh. Greg Lestrade joined in as well, while Molly sat frozen with her hand over her mouth.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson said faintly.

John's laugh turned into a coughing fit, and Mary thumped him on the back repeatedly.

"Oh... my God," John said eventually.

"I propose we all drink," Greg said, raising his glass. "To Sherlock talking on national telly!"

-o-

There was an opening number—some song and dance thing by a local comedian who was trying to insult everyone with clever lyrics, as they cut to those celebrities he was trying to offend. There was one line about a pregnant teenager who snogs strangers in nightclubs, and they cut to Violet who was playing along, looking incredulous and pretending to be offended. They could just make out Sherlock beside her looking unimpressed.

"John!" Lestrade said.

"That's a scowl," said John.

"There was no furrowed brow."

"It's that look he gives you when you say a bad joke," Molly offered.

There were no more shots of Violet and Sherlock for about forty-five minutes as different category winners were announced, although John swore it was Sherlock's hands clapping to the right of the screen when they showed a close-up of one of the other _Regency Road_ stars who was nominated for Best Villain. Lestrade and John both chugged at their own new category of witnessing Sherlock's body parts on screen.

-o-

Sherlock had disappeared again. Violet didn't blame him. She was just grateful he hadn't experienced any kind of meltdown. Although, curiously, he didn't seem to have sobered up at all since she'd requested he stop drinking back at the hotel. Quite the opposite—he appeared more inebriated as the night wore on and smelled distinctly like cigarette smoke. On the rare occasion he even took to his seat, he'd rest his arm on the back of her chair and gently caress her bare shoulder with his thumb. And before leaving her, he'd kiss her cheek and say, "Back in a minute."

Public displays of affection. He really _was_ drunk.

Violet wished to escape herself. She definitely needed fresh air. Where would she find it? Wherever the smokers exited to? Would that be where she'd find her boyfriend?

A few minutes later, Violet found herself trapped in a toilet cubicle with the air heavy and pressing in on her. She couldn't draw breath and scrambled to escape into the wider bathroom. She thought of splashing cold water onto her face as she hurriedly washed her hands but the idea of ruining her makeup prevented her. She really needed to get outside... and, what? Be photographed by fans and paparazzi sitting on the ground with her head propped up on her knees?

Violet fled the bathroom. She couldn't do this. She had to leave. Fuck the paparazzi. And the fans. And all of it. She would just...

Just...

"This way," a familiar and welcome baritone bid her, as a gentle hand on her elbow redirected her from crossing the lobby.

"Sher..." she said on an exhale, as Sherlock ushered her away from the doors to the auditorium and to a side corridor. "Where?" she added faintly as they approached a secured door, manned by a security guard.

The guard saw them approaching and swiped a card along the panel. When the indicator light turned to green, he reefed open the door in front of them. Violet saw him give a faint nod to Sherlock.

"Where...?" she said again.

"Save your breath," Sherlock ordered her as they hastened along the corridor.

Violet could hear the awards ceremony continuing backstage, and the swell of excited voices from the press room to their left. She knew the winners would end up there, being interviewed post-award and that if they continued any further along the passageway, they'd be amongst a whole crowd of media-types. But Sherlock stopped them in front of another door where he swiftly pressed the numbers on a keypad. The door beeped in confirmation and Sherlock pulled it open.

"Are you all right to go up?" he prompted her when they were presented with several flights of stairs.

"Yes," Violet replied. "But where are we?"

Sherlock waited for her while she removed her heels. She was still short of breath but able to go on. It seemed as if she were escaping something anyway. And being in Sherlock's company and struggling to keep up with him when she had no idea of his intention was strangely comforting and all too familiar to her.

"This is a semi-disused part of the theatre. It hasn't been renovated yet," Sherlock explained as they ascended. "The rest of the theatre has been made more accessible—minimal steps and staircases, the addition of ramps and lifts and the widening of corridors. They need more funding before they can continue the rest."

At long last they were through a set of doors at the top of the stairs and into a room crowded with boxes and props. At the far end of the room was an open window. A chair had been placed below it, and it was to here that Sherlock directed Violet and bid her to sit down. She welcomed the cool air as it caressed her face.

Perched precariously on the window ledge was a small bowl holding several cigarette butts. Violet relaxed into her breathing as she redirected her gaze from the makeshift ashtray to the concerned face of her boyfriend.

"Yes, I've spent most of the evening up here," he said, answering Violet's unspoken question. "I'm sorry I abandoned you."

Violet shook her head.

"It's not that. I don't mind." Her chest and throat grew tight again as the rest of the night's events outlined themselves in her mind. "It's just that..."

Sherlock pulled out a crate and sat on it in front of Violet. He grasped both her hands in his.

"What is it? During your interviews, you looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"I was," Violet replied, finding comfort in Sherlock's touch. "I can do interviews all day long. But the rest of it isn't..." She looked around the room, finding no relief in anything. Except...

Sherlock followed her gaze which had settled on a bottle of scotch with an empty glass next to it.

"I borrowed it from the theatre manager's office," he quickly explained.

Violet abruptly stood up.

"I can't do this, Sherlock. This isn't me. It's... it's a popularity contest. It's not acting. I don't know why I'm here. Please can we..."

Sherlock rose to his feet as well and reached for her.

"Can we go?" she finished, her voice fading to a whisper. Violet could feel pressure building behind her eyes and her heart thumped erratically in her chest.

Sherlock gently rubbed her arms.

"Yes," he said, and he turned from her and proceeded to pour a splash of whiskey into the glass. "Here, drink this."

"No, I—"

"It'll help calm you down while I plan our escape."

"What?"

Violet accepted the drink from Sherlock and stared at its contents for a moment while Sherlock stalked away from her, then back again. He went to run his fingers through his hair, then tutted when he realised that there would be no give in the strands since they had been plastered with product.

Violet gulped down the amber liquid, felt it burn the back of her throat and warm her insides. She closed her eyes momentarily as her boyfriend paced in front of her.

"Okay," he said eventually. "We don't want them to focus on an empty seat when they announce the nominations. So, a distraction then. A disruption to the evening's proceedings."

"Sherlock."

The detective-genius stopped pacing and stared, unseeing a few feet in front of him.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed and excited. He began pacing again, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "Dry ice. We wreak havoc in the auditorium. There are canisters..." he said, pointing vaguely to the doorway. "And I can get my brother to hover a helicopter overhead. Open all the windows so the sound filters through. Blinding gas, deafening sound. Brilliant!"

Violet stared incredulously at her boyfriend, drink still in hand.

"A bit risky," he continued murmuring to himself as he drew his phone out of his pocket. "Echoes of the 2002 theatre hostage crisis in Moscow, but I think we could get away with it with a minimum of casualties. There could always be a panicked stampede though."

He began tapping away at his phone as Violet came out of her paralysis.

"Sherlock," she said, stepping toward him and placing a hand over his to prevent him from dialling or typing or whatever it was he was doing in a bid to organise a bogus terrorist threat to the theatre so that she didn't have to endure the rest of the evening's events.

"What?" he said, deep creases appearing in his brow.

"I'm... I'm..." she stammered as the alcohol hit her central nervous system. "I'm fine. Really. I think I'll just return to my seat now."

Sherlock studied Violet's eyes for a moment.

"You sure?"

-o-

Mrs Hudson squealed and Mary grabbed her hand as they announced the next category, _Rising New Talent._

Steve Kerchamp, the evening's presenter began his preamble.

"This category recognises soap's newcomers to our screens, someone whose arrival has injected something fresh and exciting, introducing an onscreen spark to our favourite soaps. Here to present this award we have an old already risen talent, a _Summerville_ stalwart, and most recently seen on _Soft Heads, Hard Hearts_ , let's welcome the amazing iron lady, Veronica Yolender!"

There was applause in appreciation as Ms Yolender joined Kerchamp onstage.

"Thank you, Scott," she said, "although I do take offense at being called 'old.'"

"Get on with it!" called John.

"Quiet, John!" Mary snapped, and she gave him a look of disapproval. "Oh, there they are!" Mary pointed to Violet and Sherlock on-screen for a second, reacting to Veronica's comment about playing a pregnant teenager once, but not having the permission to swear as much as bloody Violet Hunter was allowed to during her birth scenes. Sherlock was smiling mildly.

"Mary!" called Lestrade.

"It doesn't help that Sherlock's been drinking and John's texted him all night," Mary replied, taking only a small sip of her drink.

John shushed her.

On the telly, Veronica Yolender was reading from a card.

"And the nominees for _Rising New Talent_ are: Beccy Allury, _Young Hateful Things_." She paused to allow the audience to react and for the focus to appear on the young Miss Allury. "Cal Vieler, _Sussex Sons_..." The focus on Mr Vieler was accompanied by wolf-whistles from the audience. "... Violet Hunter, _Regency Road_ …"

The living room exploded when they saw Sherlock, his furrowed brow disappearing in place of a broad smile while he clapped. He was just turning to Violet to say something as the shot went back to the stage. Mrs Hudson held a hand to her cheek as John, Mary and Molly had to down their drinks.

Veronica Yolender ended the nominations with, "... and Michael Shobern, _Düsseldorf_. Let's have a look..."

Everyone in Mrs Hudson's living room began talking over one another as they made derogatory comments about every other nominee, apart from Mrs Hudson who said she quite liked Cal Vieler. They then held their collective breath as Veronica said, "And the award for _Rising New Talent_ goes to..."

"Body part!" yelled Lestrade at the composite screen of all four nominees shown in close-up, allowing only Sherlock's arm to be visible in shot.

"... Cal Vieler, _Sussex Sons_!"

"Rubbish!" John yelled.

"Oh, she's a good sport!" Mrs Hudson commented as they cut to each of the nominees while Cal Vieler made his way to the stage. Violet was clapping and smiling broadly, while Sherlock was merely clapping.

"John!" called Lestrade.

"Yeah, that was pretty unemotional," John replied, taking a swig.

John's phone buzzed.

 _Rigged. —SH_

John hastily replied, _Smile you big goose. I'm trying to get Mary drunk. —JW_

 _What? —SH_

John Watson drained his glass and sniggered into his phone. Mary narrowed her eyes at him. John's phone buzzed again.

 _There's obviously a conspiracy at work here. Need to get behind the scenes to investigate. —SH_

John chuckled to himself, and peered blearily at his screen as he composed his reply.

 _The results are as voted by the British public or a panel of judges. That category was voted by the public. —JW_

 _Then the public are idiots. —SH_

-o-

"Welcome back," said the onscreen presenter as John returned from the bathroom just in time. "You're watching the 23rd Television Soap Awards. I'm your host, Scott Kerchamp. We're very excited to present our next category—one displaying tears, animosity, betrayal, lust, and joy. And no I'm not talking about Mitchell Cavendish's dressing room..."

The forced laughter in the auditorium was only matched by the sole cackle of the landlady in the Baker Street audience.

"The award for _Most Dramatic Scene_ has been one that has been hotly contested in previous years, dominated by those scenes usually resulting in a death of a major character. This year to present this award, please welcome one character whose death caused a whole nation to mourn, Mr Alex Breville!"

"Oooh!" exclaimed Mary, sitting up a little straighter.

In the chair opposite, Molly Hooper also sharply inhaled. The reactions of the two women were not lost on the Scotland Yard DI.

"I think he's been up on drugs charges," he remarked, giving a subtle wink to John Watson. "And urinating in public, I believe."

The women ignored the comment as John snorted out a laugh.

On screen, the dashing Mr Breville addressed the auditorium.

"Thank you, Scott. Ladies and Gentlemen, lovely to be returning from the afterworld to present this award. I know a lot of blood was spilled in getting these fine actors and actresses nominated, especially you, Robbie, ya bastard!" He paused, allowing the audience to laugh and a reaction shot from his ex co-star to appear on-screen. "Okay, let's have a look at these scenes. The nominees for this award are, ooh, my favourite: Violet Hunter, _Regency Road..._ "

There was no initial shot of Violet in the audience. Instead the telecast cut away to a _Regency Road_ scene where Christa Barlow was reacting to the news of her brother's death. When they showed the audience at the end, Violet had her hand over her mouth, and Sherlock had leant in and had just finished planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Mrs Hudson!" John yelled, scaring the landlady half to death.

The nominations continued with, Robbie Iola, from _Sussex Sons,_ Chenoa Burton, also from _Regency Road,_ and Henry Millert, _The Animals Are Us_.

"And the award for _Most Dramatic Scene_ goes to..."

Both John and Greg yelled, "Violet Hunter" at the telly, causing Mrs Hudson to gasp, and Mary to slap John's leg.

A composite screen showed all four nominees as Lestrade yelled out "Body part!" again.

"I can't look!" said Molly, covering her eyes.

"Oh, I've won fifty pounds!" joked Mr Breville on-stage. "Violet Hunter, _Regency Road!_ "

Violet had covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes brimming with tears, as she turned to Sherlock, who pressed his forehead against hers, grinning. When she removed her hand, he kissed her on the lips and whispered something to her. She smiled and hugged him, then stood up.

Mrs Hudson was in tears. Greg Lestrade reached into his jacket pocket and passed her a handkerchief without taking his own moist eyes from the screen.

-o-

Violet made her way up to the stage, holding onto her dress as she climbed the stairs. They briefly cut to Chenoa Burton who was wiping a tear away. On stage Alex Breville grabbed Violet in a huge embrace and winked at the camera as he held her for a few seconds longer than necessary amid laughter from the audience and a few wolf whistles. He then let her go, handing her the gold trophy. Violet tentatively approached the podium.

"Oh... my God," she said, and she immediately straightened up when she realised how loud her voice sounded echoing throughout the auditorium. "Thank you." She paused to fiddle with the award.

John yelled at the screen, "Don't say how heavy it is!"

"Oh dear," Violet said, frowning. She held up the award and added, "I hope my boyfriend doesn't try to melt this down."

Understandably, the audience laughed and Mrs Hudson murmured, "I wouldn't put it past him."

They cut to Sherlock, his very own close-up, who was grinning broadly, the creases around his eyes showing more prominently.

"Fuck yeah!" yelled John.

"John!" both Mary and Mrs Hudson shouted together.

"This scene would never have existed if it weren't for the talented _Regency Road_ writers, Julie, Michelle and Tim," Violet began, her voice wavering a little. "And of course there was the wonderful direction by Gerda, who channels misunderstood adolescents really well. Thank you to everyone who voted, and to my friends and family for their unwavering support. But most of all..." She paused to gaze pointedly at only one member of the audience, "... my sweetheart..." She held up the award and finished with, "Thank you."

Violet left the stage to a round of applause as Scott, the presenter made his way back to the podium.

"And that," said John standing up and swaying slightly, "is bloody good telly. Now who wants another drink?"

-oOo-

 **Author's Notes:**

Some award shows have a delayed broadcast, and I'm not sure which ones in Britain are aired live. No matter. Since I made up my own award show (loosely based on the _British Soap Awards_ and the _National Television Awards_ ) let's just suspend disbelief and allow me to have some artistic license by having the TELSAs broadcast live, okay? :D

Thanks to _thedragonaunt_ for the metric/imperial measurement advice. x

 **Credits:**

No credits! It's all mine this time, from the TV show names to the names of the other entertainment industry bods (obviously with the exclusion of the usual stuff I've borrowed from the BBC). Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.


	27. As Ever, I'm Concerned About You

**Chapter 26 -** **As Ever, I'm Concerned About You**

Violet dozed on and off until the early hours when she was required in the lobby to be interviewed by the hungover hosts of Brekky TV. The morning show had set up a makeshift studio for a post-awards segment. Violet had been approached the night before by the studio's executives as one of a handful of _Reggie_ stars who would most likely be well enough to turn up for the interview.

She returned to the hotel room to find Sherlock recovering in the shower. Naturally he had been concerned that Violet was nowhere to be seen.

"But don't worry," he called from the shower. "I eventually deduced where you were."

"And where was I?"

"Downstairs. Having breakfast. Not a difficult deduction to make."

Violet sighed. So her boyfriend was still a bit drunk then.

She made Sherlock go for a walk to clear his head. And while he was out, she requested he find his way to Baker Street to fetch her overnight bag since he had forgotten to bring it yesterday. The actress had nothing to wear in which to leave the hotel and she wouldn't be caught dead wearing yesterday's clothes. She and Priyal had been interviewed before their pampering session that morning wearing the street clothes they had arrived in. Violet had been fortunate that the senior producer's adult daughter could lend her some clothes to wear at the Brekky TV interview in the early hours.

-o-

Sherlock did as he was bid, only because he couldn't think up a suitable counter-argument, and also because he was dying for a cigarette. Violet had stipulated that after last night's sessions, he should now give up smoking. He'd dutifully do that, he thought, once he'd purchased nicotine patches sometime in the next… decade.

He walked a little way, long enough to finish one cigarette, before he caught a cab. When they pulled up at Baker Street, Sherlock glowered at the front door, specifically, the knocker that lay perfectly aligned in the middle of the door.

 _What's he doing here?_

He paid the cabbie then strode up to the steps. Sherlock unlocked the door to 221, resetting the knocker askew as he entered. He stomped upstairs to find his brother sitting comfortably in Violet's armchair. Mycroft Holmes rose and scanned his sibling from head to toe.

"This is becoming a regular occurrence," he said, his lips drawn into a disapproving line.

"Yes," said Sherlock, shrugging out of his coat. "My thoughts exactly. I should really get the locks changed."

He turned from his brother to hang up his coat behind the living room door.

"I'm referring to your current state."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied, not turning around. "And I'm ignoring you."

Mycroft sighed deeply as Sherlock strode out of the living room and crossed the landing.

"Sherlock—"

"If you want to lecture me," Sherlock called back as he began to ascend the stairs, "you'll have to follow me. I'm busy." He glanced back in amusement when he saw his brother take to the stairs below him. "This should take you back," he remarked, chuckling to himself. "Remember that step aerobics class you used to take in the nineties?"

Once the occupant of a minor position in the British Government had crossed the threshold into Violet's bedroom, Mycroft Holmes gasped, and said, "Dear lord." He quickly scanned the room as Sherlock unzipped an overnight bag that sat on the bed. "Shall I call someone?"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, distractedly rummaging through the bag to check if Violet had packed sufficiently.

"You really shouldn't touch anything."

Catching on, Sherlock snorted out a laugh. Mycroft regarded his brother in bewilderment before he asked, "You don't mean Ms Hunter's bedroom is normally like this?"

"Something like that."

Sherlock continued checking the contents of Violet's bag in Mycroft Holmes' judgemental silence. Finally, he zipped up the bag and brought it with him to the door. Brushing past his brother, he called back, "Why are you here?"

Mycroft wearily descended the staircase behind Sherlock.

"I saw you on television last night."

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock responded disinterestedly. "You and a few million other people." He strode over the threshold into the living room and dropped the bag to the rug. Deciding against staying a little longer to enjoy a cup of tea in solitude now that his brother had infiltrated his inner sanctum, he reached behind the door for his coat. "So, who did you vote for?" he asked mischievously.

"I had no intention of watching," Mycroft replied. "I didn't even know you'd be accompanying Ms Hunter until I received an update from..."

Mycroft immediately ceased speaking when he realised his inadvertent admission. Naturally, his silence piqued Sherlock's interest.

The detective paused as he drew on his coat. "GCHQ?" Sherlock finished for him.

Mycroft narrowed his already beady eyes. "And neither did Mummy. I received a call from her as well. She was most distressed."

"Why? Couldn't she figure out how I'd fit into the tiny little box inside her living room?"

Mycroft continued to fix Sherlock with a gaze devoid of humour.

"She didn't know you and Violet were back together again."

"So why didn't you send her an Executive Summary after you found out?"

"I've been busy—what with the…" Mycroft caught himself again. "Anyway, I thought you would've given her a call. You know our mother is now a..." The older Holmes rearranged his features into a look of distaste, "… _fan_ ... of Ms Hunter. But she was worried you didn't know about..."

Sherlock sighed, and shook his head lightly. His brother didn't like to go into exact details when it came to matters he felt embarrassed to utter. It was much easier to show somebody an explicit photograph.

"That I didn't know about Violet snogging some _random guy_ in a nightclub a couple of months ago?"

"I reassured her it was you," Mycroft added. "But if anyone else was to come forward—"

"It _was_ me."

Mycroft stared uncomprehendingly at his brother for a second before he rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Of course it was," he muttered.

"So, if that's all?" Sherlock asked, picking up Violet's bag and making to leave the living room. "I really need to be getting back to the hotel."

"Give our mother a call, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused on the landing outside the door. "And when have I ever done that?"

"After last Christmas, I thought..."

Sherlock frowned at his brother. "Thought what?"

"That you'd ended this ridiculous self-exile from our parents' lives."

" _Parent_ , Mycroft. I only consider _one_ of those people a _parent._ And even then..."

With that parting shot, Sherlock turned to leave. Pausing on the first step, he had second thoughts. He turned back to his brother who was just crossing the threshold behind him and trying desperately to mask the emotions that had crept across his face.

Jumping at the chance to play on Mycroft's guilt, Sherlock said, "Why don't you be a useful big brother and check out the people working on Violet's next thing."

"She has another _thing_?" Mycroft asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes, it's her profession apparently. She's an actor. Damian Oakeshott is the man's name. Since he's the director, a little background check wouldn't hurt."

Mycroft sighed heavily, but Sherlock was keen to put distance between them. He hastened downstairs and through the door to the street. He desperately needed another cigarette, so he dropped Violet's bag onto the ground and rummaged through his pockets for his packet.

Just as he was leaning against the railings and lighting up, Mycroft materialised on the pavement.

"Ah. The siren call of old habits."

Sherlock ignored his brother and exhaled his cigarette smoke, lifting his head skyward.

"And it seems you're likely to acquire a few more of those. _Habits._ "

Sherlock tipped his head toward the kerb and said, "Your car's here."

Mycroft Holmes moved so that he stood directly in front of his younger brother. His deportment stiffened and he regarded Sherlock through a disapproving narrowing of his eyes.

"Sherlock, if you and Ms Hunter are going to be... _co-habiting_ for any length of time, you really need to find another coping mechanism. The over-consumption of—"

" _Coping mechanism_?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, his steely-eyed gaze unwavering. "This... industry in which Ms Hunter luxuriates is nothing more than a spectacle, Sherlock. The entertainment industry. It simply exists to entertain the masses. Have you ever thought what kind of people that attracts?"

"Yes. On many occasions."

"Then you'll know it isn't a world in which you belong."

"I don't _belong_ in—"

"You did last night. And look what effect it had on you."

Sherlock silently regarded the traffic and passers-by across the street. This had to be something Mycroft was particularly worried about for him to continue their conversation in a public place. _It's a wonder I haven't been bundled into the back of the town car and spirited away to Battersea Station for the rest._

Since Sherlock couldn't retrieve any more witticisms to counter his brother's stupid argument, he directed his gaze on anything other than his older sibling.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, lowering his voice to a sympathetic pitch. "I watched that broadcast last night. I saw the hordes of … _fans …_ and the accompanying media frenzy. These aren't the passive _goldfish_ that surround us every day. These were piranha."

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock scoffed.

"And I watched you, as the night wore on. And I can see you now."

"Mycroft." There was a note of warning in Sherlock's tone.

"Do you remember your first ever school dinner?"

Sherlock straightened up and dropped his cigarette to the pavement. "I need a cab," he said, crushing the burning ember with his heel.

"The apparent disorder of the school community moving around the dining hall. The sea of unfamiliar faces. The _noise._ We had to pull you out; do you remember that? I carried you myself. I was only twelve at the time. You were screaming, with your hands covering your ears."

Sherlock made to move away; his brother was speaking nonsense, for Christ's sake. But Mycroft took a small, sideways step, preventing Sherlock from leaving. It was an uncharacteristic gesture on his older brother's part, and Sherlock was momentarily stunned, making him freeze in place.

"All I could see of that ceremony last night," Mycroft continued, speaking softly and gazing down at Sherlock, "was a five-year-old boy with his hands firmly clamped over his ears." Sherlock's chest began to constrict and he felt an unbearable pressure behind his eyes. But Mycroft's expression hardened, and he said to Sherlock, slowly but surely, " _Find another way to cope_."

-o-

Sherlock stared at the numerous police cars and wondered if he'd arrived back at the wrong hotel. Hadn't he only been gone an hour? He paid the cab fare and strode confidently toward the hotel entrance that had been secured by a lone constable from the Met. His phone had buzzed three times while he had been journeying from Baker Street after escaping the suffocating clutches of his older brother's _concern._ Sherlock had ignored the calls, thinking it was Mycroft, but in all likelihood, it may have been Violet.

He didn't stop to check. Not yet. Not until he had entered the hotel.

The constable took a step in front of the door.

"Sorry, sir," she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped just in front of the young PC, and gazed down at her. He smiled pleasantly, giving her a few seconds for recognition to kick in.

"Ah... you'll have to..." she said, blinking rapidly as it suddenly dawned on her who was stood in front of her. To some of these new recruits, Sherlock Holmes was something of a celebrity. "...s-sign," she finished, shifting uncomfortably.

Sherlock took the proffered clipboard from her, having no intention to sign anything, and scanned the list of names of those who had already logged in before him.

Catching a familiar name, he said, "Lestrade. Good," and he handed the list back to the bewildered officer. "Thank you." He stepped around her and strode confidently into the lobby.

Unfortunately, he caught the eye of a particular detective sergeant who wouldn't be such an easy person to navigate around.

"Freak," Sally Donovan said in greeting as she strode from her position by reception where she had been conferring with a colleague. "I don't think the boss requested your... _presence._ "

"I'm a guest here, Sally," Sherlock replied smoothly. "Just returning to my room. You really should've locked down the hotel a bit more securely."

He made to head in the direction of the lifts, when Sally quickly held up a hand to stop him.

"W-wait!" she said, stepping in front of him, slightly flustered by Sherlock's remark. "What time did you leave?"

"I'll be waiting upstairs," Sherlock responded, "ready to give my statement to the appropriate officer. And by _appropriate_ , I mean Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sally narrowed her eyes at the detective-genius.

"What floor are you on?"

Sherlock's heart quickened. He hadn't made time to consider that Violet may be involved somehow. But his expression, devoid of emotion, masked his unease.

"The ninth."

Sally's face relaxed, prompting the tension to also leave Sherlock. She turned to the officer stationed by the lifts and called out, "Take Violet Hunter's _sweetheart_ up to nine!"

Sherlock let DS Donovan's remark vaporise around him. So he was permitted to travel to the ninth floor, Sherlock concluded as Sally returned to reception. _Therefore the ninth floor doesn't contain the crime scene, and Violet is safe._

 _Perhaps._

Sherlock drew out his phone. Three missed calls from Violet.

 _Or Violet's phone._

He wasn't out of the woods just yet.

Sherlock paused in front of a set of two lifts. The uniformed officer stood just inside one, holding the door open for him. The other lift doors remained closed and didn't appear to be operational. The illuminated floor number above the doors stayed firmly on the number eight.

So, the crime was committed on the eighth floor, Sherlock concluded.

Sherlock strode into the lift and waited while the Met officer pressed the button to close the doors. Floor nine had already been pressed for him, so Sherlock reached out and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

"Oh, you haven't been authorised to enter the eighth floor," the PC advised Sherlock.

 _Bingo._

"Is Detective Inspector Lestrade the SIO on this case?" Sherlock asked the PC, knowing full well the constable couldn't _unpress_ the button to the eighth floor.

"Ah... yes," the PC replied hesitatingly.

Sherlock returned his attention to the lift doors, and after an agonising twenty seconds upon which the lift ground to a halt, they opened before him.

"Ah..." the PC began again, but Sherlock was already into the corridor. Confidence was the key. He knew that most of the officers recognised him, and the majority of them didn't want his kind of attention. They knew he could reveal their secrets to all and sundry, so many of them found it easier to pretend that they hadn't seen him as he strolled past.

It was quite obvious which room contained the crime scene as he strode along the corridor. But the dull thumping of his heart told him that he was more concerned about the fate of his girlfriend than the excited anticipation that usually heralded in a new case.

Sherlock could hear Lestrade's voice through the open door.

"… cleaning staff, room service... anybody else!" the DI said sternly to an unseen officer behind the door. "Ah, Sherlock," he said, catching sight of the Consulting Detective. "Isn't it wonderful to be working with a celebrity! I was wondering if you'd show up. You staying here? Your name wasn't highlighted on the register."

"It wasn't booked under my name," Sherlock said, striding in. Lestrade looked far worse than Sherlock felt. Sherlock recalled that John said Greg was going head to head with the doctor during their TELSAs drinking game. Sherlock couldn't understand what that had been about, but he immediately dismissed his thoughts on the inspector's condition and used an expert eye to scan the room. There was no body. No blood. And more importantly: no Violet. "What do we have here?" he asked finally. The crumpled bed sheets gave him little to go on.

"It hardly requires your assistance. Uniform are on their way to picking up the _boyfriend._ "

"Whose room is this?" Sherlock asked.

"Haven't you heard? I thought they'd all be gossiping about it by now."

"I've been... out."

"One of those _Regency Road_ bods," Lestrade explained, gesturing toward the empty bed. "Chenoa Burton."

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

Thank you, _**thedragonaunt**_ _,_ for your advice about Sherlock's and Mycroft's early schooling arrangements and the idea that a school dining hall could be a place that a young Sherlock would find distressing when experiencing it for the first time.

For an alternative peek into Sherlock's early school days, do check out _thedragonaunt's_ story _Genesis,_ as well as her whole catalogue of Sherlockian realistic drama, romance, angst and fluff!

In case it's not obvious, I've completely disregarded Sherlock's parents as introduced in S3. At the time I originally wrote this, they were an unknown quantity, so I'm sticking with my version for this story.


	28. Don't Compromise the Integrity of the—

**Chapter 27 -** **Don't Compromise the Integrity of the—**

Violet left her post by the window as soon as she heard the door to her hotel room open.

"Oh, God, Sherlock! Where were you?" she exclaimed, making tracks across the room. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

She immediately grabbed a hold of her boyfriend's coat and wrinkled her nose. _Smoking again!_ she thought, her anger mounting.

"I was downstairs, checking out the room," he replied, attempting to shrug out of his coat.

Violet released her hold on his lapels, her mood not at all lightening due to Sherlock's calm demeanour. She knew she was being irrational, and Sherlock smoking had nothing at all to do with this.

"So, what did you find? Was it Stuart Jire? It had to be. Have they arrested him? My God, Sherlock!"

Violet watched Sherlock as he methodically folded his coat lengthways and draped it over a chair.

"Sherlock!"

He slowly faced her, sighing in the process, which did nothing for Violet's ire. She wrinkled her brow; he casually placed his hands on his hips.

"They're sending officers to Jire's residence. He didn't book a room in the hotel last night. They had initially suspected Chenoa's escort..."

"Eric?"

"Yes. Eric. But the interviews they've conducted so far have revealed an argument that broke out between Chenoa, Eric, and Jire last night."

"I know. We were there. They haven't interviewed me yet, and we can't leave until they do that."

Violet glared at Sherlock as if everything was his fault.

It _was_ his fault. And it was _her_ fault. They'd done nothing about Stuart Jire dating Chenoa when they knew he'd murdered Lauren Myrtle twenty years ago, and now this had happened.

"Lestrade's on his way up," Sherlock said, continuing to talk in his unaffected way, as if he was completely oblivious to the guilt eating away at Violet's insides. "I've asked him to take your statement so we could leave as soon as possible."

Violet's gaze dropped to the overnight bag by Sherlock's feet.

"I need to get dressed," she said.

She stooped to retrieve the bag, then made a bid for the bathroom.

"You know we aren't responsible for—"

Violet slammed the bathroom door shut. Of course they were!

"Violet."

His steady, calming voice filtered through the door. She knew he was standing just on the other side. Violet closed her eyes and sank onto the edge of the bathtub. She bowed her head as her stomach continued to churn. She half-expected and hoped that Sherlock would follow her in, but disappointingly, she heard a soft knock at the door to the hotel room.

Violet immediately stood up and began to undress as she heard the indistinguishable sound of male voices. She tutted and rolled her eyes to herself while she rummaged through her bag for today's outfit. She knew her dislike of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade may be a bit unreasonable. Well, he didn't like _her—_ at least, that was what Sherlock had told her last year, when they'd just begun dating.

Snatches of a past conversation flitted through Violet's mind. It had taken place after the Frances Carfax case, after she and Sherlock had first slept together, and Violet had met Sherlock and Lestrade at the Crown Court in Southwark.

 _He doesn't like you_ , Sherlock had told her. _Can't stand you. And even more so since he's found out you're an actress and you've dyed your hair blonde._ What a load of crap. Perhaps Sherlock had been projecting his own thoughts there. Sherlock had said it was also because she had refused to go to Hackney and had voiced her objection to Scotland Yard arresting the pedophile teacher, prompting Lestrade to decide she was a bit of a flake. Violet had thought it debatable over whether the teacher could in fact be called a pedophile, when he may have been a young man who had fallen in love with the wrong young woman.

 _Girl. Not young woman. She was fifteen._

Violet scowled as she recalled the rest of Sherlock's words.

 _And so I told him you were an actress and you were always over-emotional and that you loved tragic romantic types. So now he thinks you're a flaky... actress._

So perhaps Lestrade's opinion of her had a lot to do with Sherlock's woeful explanations.

Violet swiftly dressed, her muscles tensing at the sound of light banter between the two men outside.

She opened the bathroom door quite dramatically—maybe _too_ dramatically, she thought in hindsight—effectively halting the conversation between Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Ms Hunter," the DI said, awkwardly rising from his casual perch against the window sill across the room.

Violet strode in and dropped her bag onto the bed.

"Congratulations on your award," Lestrade said amiably. "Sherlock was telling me—"

"Where do you want to do this?" Violet asked. She knew she sounded like a rude bitch, but she couldn't help it. Everything was intertwined—the assault on Chenoa, Lestrade's dislike of her, and Sherlock's apparent indifference about everything. And he'd been smoking again and didn't return her calls! Didn't he care how upset she was?

So she had decided on bitchiness this morning. Perhaps she'd stop when the director yelled _Cut!_

Lestrade gestured toward the small table with chairs on either side in one corner of their tiny hotel room. Violet sat down on one side, with the DI taking the seat across from her. Sherlock remained standing for a few seconds before he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The room was so small that Violet imagined her boyfriend was disappointed he didn't have enough room in which to pace.

Lestrade cleared his throat as he drew out a small notepad from his inside pocket.

"Right then," he said, turning over a few pages. "If you could tell me the last time you saw Chenoa Burton?"

His tone had changed to an official one, which was fine by Violet.

"At the after party," Violet replied. "I was..." Her eyes flickered toward her boyfriend before she continued. "… standing with Sherlock and... a group of others." _A group who were accusing Sherlock of hitting me_ , she silently remembered. "I can tell you their names, if you like." _I can name and shame every one of them. With Sherlock's help. He can shame them and I can name them._

"That's not necessary at this stage."

"Well... we were distracted by Chenoa yelling. I looked over, and she was pushing Stuart in the chest. She'd said 'You don't own me,' or something. She repeated it a couple of times. Screamed it, actually. Eric was trying to hold her back."

"And then what happened?"

Violet dropped her gaze. "I don't know," she replied. And she glanced over at Sherlock again before making eye contact with the DI once more. "We left."

"You left?"

Violet drew in a weary breath and exhaled just as heavily. "Yes."

Lestrade leant forward onto the table. "By all accounts, the argument was only just starting. It escalated from there, but you and Sherlock just... left?"

Violet folded her arms in front of her and sat back in her chair.

"Yes, we did. We had our own things... to deal with."

Ushering Sherlock away from a potential lynch mob had been first and foremost on Violet's mind. With everyone's attention on Chenoa's outburst, it had been the perfect opportunity for her and Sherlock to make their escape. Would the man himself remember that though? Would he remember prodding a young man in the chest and saying, " _I - don't - hit - women._ "

Lestrade turned to address Sherlock, who had his head bowed and was raking a hand through his curls. "You didn't stick around while the drama unfolded?"

Sherlock lifted his head, but Violet cut in first.

"You can't rely on his testimony. He was drunk!"

A tiny smile graced the DI's features, and one that Violet cared little for.

"Just gathering statements here, Ms Hunter. Testimonies are for court proceedings."

"He was still drunk, whatever you call it," Violet remarked, narrowing her eyes a little.

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and said, "Yes, of course you were. We all saw you on the telly. You don't _twirl_ apparently."

Sherlock snorted out some semblance of a laugh, which only served to raise Violet's hackles.

"Should you really be making jokes, Detective Inspector?" she snapped.

From his position on the bed, Sherlock straightened up a little. He raised his eyebrows at her, but Violet shot him a look of disdain herself.

The DI cleared his throat again. "No, of course not," he said. His pen poised above his notepad once more, he asked, "And what time was this?"

"Just after twelve fifteen."

"And you know this, how?"

"Because it took us a couple of minutes to get back to the room, and then I was debating whether or not to go back down to the party. I checked my phone to see how late it was."

"And did you? Go back to the party, that is," the DI prompted her.

"Yes."

"Did you?" Sherlock cut in.

Ignoring Sherlock's query, Lestrade asked, "And what time was this?"

"About half an hour later, because I had to..." She glanced at Sherlock again. His expression was unreadable. He had no idea how the evening had panned out, Violet concluded. He had been far too drunk.

But Lestrade exchanged a look with Sherlock, which annoyed Violet no end. _They did not have sex!_ Sherlock had passed out! She had to fend off his drunken attention, then trick him into waiting for her on the bed, where she knew he would eventually pass out. Only then could she change into her after party dress, and fix her makeup and hair.

"Right, so you returned to the party?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes," Violet replied, to a semi-audible tut by Sherlock, which she ignored. "And Chenoa, Stuart and Eric were no longer there. I don't know what happened. I mean, there was a lot of gossip, but I didn't care to hear about it. It just sounded like a shouting match with Chenoa storming out and the two guys hot on her heels."

"Okay. Anything else you remember?"

Violet thought for a moment, then said, "A fire alarm went off, about an hour later. We were standing outside for about half an hour before they gave the all clear. I don't remember seeing Chenoa or Stuart or Eric, but that doesn't mean they weren't there. I just wasn't looking for them." Again, her eyes flickered toward Sherlock. She couldn't help it. An assault had taken place right under his nose—the great Consulting Detective—and he had lain, unconscious, on the floor above. He hadn't even woken during the fire alarm!

Violet added, "We were allowed back in at twenty-five past two."

"You're very accurate with your time-keeping," Lestrade remarked.

"I had to attend an interview on Brekky TV this morning, Detective Inspector. So I was required downstairs at five thirty. I was quite wary of how much sleep I could get in before then."

"R–ight," Lestrade remarked, quickly jotting down another note or two before looking up again. "Did you return to the party after the fire alarm?"

"No."

Beside them, Sherlock heaved out a weary sigh.

"Anything else, Ms Hunter?" Lestrade asked, as he finished scrawling on his notepad.

Violet started telling the DI about what she knew of Stuart Jire and his apparent affair with Chenoa, when Lestrade stopped her.

"Sherlock's filled me in about that downstairs. I'm just taking your statement about the events that occurred here. Everybody knows you two are dating now, so I just want to make sure all the i's are dotted and the t's crossed, and that I've got statements from both Sherlock Holmes and Violet Hunter."

"But there's more," Violet offered, and the eyes of both men were immediately upon her. "There was an actress, a long time ago. Lauren—"

"Myrtle. Yeah, I know about that, too."

"He knows all of it, Violet," Sherlock wearily volunteered.

Lestrade stood up and tucked his notepad into his jacket pocket, signalling an end to the interview it seemed. "As I told Sherlock," he said, glancing around as the Consulting Detective also rose from the bed, "anything you both found out during your... investigations can't be used in any official capacity, so I've not logged any of that. But I will be speaking to the mob in the West Midlands. We will get him, Ms Hunter."

Lestrade locked eyes with Violet as she stood, and for the first time since they started the interview, she felt a prickling behind her eyes. She quickly turned away and said softly, "Thank you."

Violet pretended to sort through her bag on the bed when the DI awkwardly bid Sherlock a goodbye behind her, then exited the hotel room. She didn't know what Sherlock was doing until she felt his presence with his arms gently banding around her.

"There really wasn't anything we could've done to prevent this," he said resting his head over her shoulder and pressing his cheek to hers.

Violet gasped out a sob with Sherlock vocalising her guilt. Sherlock gently turned her around to face him. As a heavy weight descended upon her, she let Sherlock hold her firmly. Her tears fell easily and Sherlock remained silent. His strong embrace relieved her of some of the guilt she was feeling; her anger melted away, revealing a heartache for her own selfishness, and a deep regret for speaking rudely to Detective Inspector Lestrade.

-oOo-


	29. I'll Take the Case

**Chapter 28 – I'll Take the Case**

Violet yanked at her ear buds and looked quizzically up at Sherlock, who was standing by the window, his violin by his side.

"I'm sorry. Were you saying something?"

"I was just talking about my music," he replied, gesturing toward his music stand with his bow. "It doesn't matter."

"Okay," she said, re-inserting one of the headphone buds into her ear. "It sounded lovely." She inserted the second headphone then noticed Sherlock frowning down at her. "What?" she asked, plucking the second bud from her ear again.

"You weren't even listening. You had those things in."

"I heard a bit at the start. It sounded too sad. And in my present mood, your sad music wasn't helping."

Sherlock's chest heaved outward as he drew in a resigned breath. He deposited his violin onto the living room table, then moved toward his chair and sat, uncomfortably, upright and on the edge of the seat. He leant forward with both elbows on his knees. Violet eyed him curiously.

"But that's just it," he said to Violet, pausing so he could gather his thoughts. He knew that any word or phrase could trigger something ugly. "I can't read your mood. I know you're upset about Chenoa, but I have a feeling you want to say something more about it, and you're holding back."

They'd managed to escape the hotel, ignoring the calls of the reporters waiting outside as Sherlock bundled Violet into a cab. She'd said little on their journey home, and excused herself to have a long bath once they entered the flat.

The evening brought with it news that Chenoa still remained unconscious, but her condition was stable. Stuart Jire had been arrested and had broken down when questioned. He had remembered little of the evening, having been intoxicated himself, but didn't deny spending time with Chenoa in her hotel room after Chenoa had dumped Eric for her former lover.

Violet's continued silence concerned Sherlock and although she hadn't openly directed any hostility toward him, he still felt she may resent him for spending the evening a drunken mess, rather than being a sharp-eyed sober version of himself, who may have spotted a potential silk-stocking strangler at fifty paces.

"Violet," he prompted her again.

Violet's eyes had grown wider, and glossier, until she looked away from Sherlock. She redirected her gaze to the unlit fireplace and blinked, causing a fat tear to chart a determined path along her cheek. She angrily brushed it away.

She continued to gaze at the cold inert charcoal. Sherlock let the silence thicken around them, knowing that this was possibly the calm before the storm.

"I'm having self-absorbed thoughts, and they seem silly and pointless when compared to what's happening with Chenoa."

Sherlock hoped his reticence would prompt Violet to continue speaking. He knew he wasn't very good at this—sympathetic listening. His only method of getting people to come to the point would be to yell at them to talk faster, or declare that he was bored and could they move right along to the bit where they'd witnessed their loved one being brutally murdered. That strategy didn't always work, but he knew in this particular case, he had to tread carefully. Best to keep his trap shut.

Violet eventually dragged her gaze from the fireplace and locked eyes with Sherlock.

"When I was on the phone to Priyal, she said that the hospital was only letting relatives visit Chenoa, which is understandable. Her mum's already there, and her dad's flying in from Nova Scotia. I said wasn't it good that her mum was there, and Priyal said, ' _Not really. She can't stand her mum. Imagine opening her eyes and seeing that old cow's ugly mug staring back at her_.' I was appalled. I mean, I know some people don't get along with their mothers... but..."

Violet looked away, and Sherlock took that moment to swallow the mother-sized lump in his throat.

"...but... they _have_ mothers. I barely have a father."

 _Ah_ , Sherlock thought, catching on. _Here it comes. Real-life tragedy triggering traumatic childhood memories._

"And then I started to imagine what if it was _me_ lying in that hospital bed."

Violet looked up at Sherlock with imploring eyes. Alarm bells sounded in his head, warning him of Violet's propensity for conjuring up fantasy worlds. His first reaction would be to enable his automatic filter, so he had to avoid that at all costs. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in an effort to remain attentive. Perhaps he should also pinch himself.

"...and they only let relatives visit _me._ Who would come?" she asked, furrowing her brow. "Not that fucking dickhead who lives at the Brassworks."

Sherlock emitted a tiny sigh of relief. He was let off the hook. Her question was only rhetorical.

"Chenoa's dad," Violet continued, "is flying in from Canada, and my fucking dad wouldn't travel five miles to visit me. Look at this," she said lifting up her phone. "Not one fucking message." She quickly navigated to her messages and read, " _Congratulations Violet Hunter. We watch your show every evening and we voted for you. Mister fucking Chatterjee_."

She waved her phone at Sherlock, who had raised his eyebrows at the swear word he was sure the Speedy's café owner had not included in his message.

"And this," Violet continued, looking down at her phone once more. " _Congratulations, Vi. You deserved it. Jasmine_. Jasmine," she repeated. "One of the fucking hairdressers at the studio. And there's more like that. But then there's this one..." She frowned as she navigated to the next message. " _Congratulations, Vi. You look... stunning..."_ Violet paused, as if to compose herself, causing the air around Sherlock to chill. He had an inkling... " _And I'm a right dickhead for not believing in you._ " She carefully placed her phone down on the side table next to her and pulled out the second earphone. She shrugged lightly and said, "I don't know who that was from. A number I don't have in my phone, but signed with a 'J'. Probably Jake on another number since I've blocked his."

 _Most definitely Jake,_ Sherlock thought darkly.

"A fucking ex-boyfriend criminal low-life thought to congratulate me, but not my own fucking..." She trailed off then suddenly stood as if to shake off her melancholy. "Anyway, I'm so selfish dwelling on this when Chenoa's just lying there..."

Sherlock could offer nothing. He was still trying to process the text from Jake Venucci. He bet the 'J' was followed by a couple of x's. He'd check Violet's messages later, naturally.

Violet moved away from the fireplace, folding her arms in front of her as she crossed the rug, then about-faced in a Consulting Detective kind of way. Sherlock leaned back in his seat staring, unseeing, toward the kitchen. He thought he should offer something by way of comfort.

When Violet finally stood with her back to Sherlock, he heard a desperate kind of sob escape from her. He turned his head to see the very obvious signs of his girlfriend crying—her head bowed, supported by one arm.

Well that was a prompt to action if ever he saw one.

Sherlock reluctantly rose from his seat and crossed the rug. He wrapped his arms around Violet, turning her so she faced him. She hiccuped another sob, then silently buried her face in his chest. Sherlock dropped his head, resting it on top of Violet's. He gently rubbed her back and wondered what his next words should be.

Violet gave one final sniff, and raised her head. She wiped her eyes with a hand and said, "I hate crying in front of you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you'd tolerate it for very long."

She continued staring up at him, her tears practically dried up already, and her expression hardening by the second. It was a curious thing she did, Sherlock noted. She'd cry, then immediately get angry. He'd seen her do that before, on at least two occasions.

Sherlock's arms were still firmly locked around Violet, and he responded with, "This is me tolerating it."

He was relieved to see her expression softening, and she sniffed again.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Violet tilted her chin upwards, and Sherlock obliged by ducking his head and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

After he'd eased back, he added, "And I would visit you in hospital, just so you know."

Violet's brow furrowed. Not the reaction he was hoping for.

"You're not family."

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock replied, shrugging lightly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I can access all areas." He finished by smiling broadly, a gesture that drew no delight from his girlfriend.

"You were right about me," she stated simply.

 _Uh oh._

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow, so Violet continued.

"When we broke up... well... you broke up with me. I just didn't know it for sure, nor your reasons why..."

Sherlock deflated a little. He thought their major breakup and his part in it— _Mycroft's part, don't forget that little fact_ —was a thing of the past.

"Well, anyway," she said, shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts. "That thing you did, your deduction. Everything you said about me was true. _Is_ true."

Sherlock's mouth had gone dry.

"Violet, I actually—"

"I know."

"I said those things to a completely different person, although you looked exactly the same and your actions were consistent with how you'd always behaved..."

"I know, Sherlock."

"But I thought your motivation for being with me and your intentions—"

"Sherlock, I know. Just let me finish."

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. Violet had dropped her gaze and began fiddling with his shirt buttons, the way she always did when she had something uncomfortable to say.

"You said I'm always running away from reality, or something, by playing make-believe..."

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"...and that's absolutely true," Violet finished, raising her eyes to Sherlock's once more. "I know I do."

"When I said 'make-believe', I actually meant—"

"When life gets too hard, I just retreat," Violet said, ignoring Sherlock's interruption. "I block out everything that's unpleasant. I don't want to _know_ things about it anymore. I didn't want you questioning me about Jake, in case I talk about unpleasant memories that somehow link Jake to crimes you know about."

Sherlock sighed as he always did whenever Violet mentioned Jake Venucci. The familiar twist in his gut accompanied the tightness in his chest.

"And obviously there's Lauren Myrtle and me not wanting you to spend any time investigating her death because life got too hard for me and I didn't want to hear about anymore unpleasantness."

 _And now we're back to square one,_ Sherlock thought. He kept his disappointment to himself, however, and rubbed what he hoped was a supportive hand down the length of Violet's arm.

"But you know what?"

 _No. What?_ thought Sherlock as he gave Violet a weary smile in support of whatever nonsense she was about to articulate.

"Copper Beeches was the worst of all."

 _Copper Beeches?_ he repeated in his mind. _How did we get there?_

Violet sniffed again before continuing. "One of the first questions you ever asked me was 'What's Copper Beeches?'"

"Ah, yes. Your computer name," Sherlock volunteered, to show he was an active listener, of course.

"Yes. See? How obvious is that? I've been using that name ever since I can remember. Not just for my computer name. In school I'd use it whenever I had to make up a name for something. What do you think my teachers thought? Oh, there's that strange girl using the name of a mental institution again. I mean, how could I not find out? Clearly I'd heard about it, probably from my grandmother. I'm sure she was the one who told me Copper Beeches is a place that makes my mother happy. Did I not notice she'd used present tense! Not past tense! Why didn't I ever question it?"

"Weren't you something like five years old at the time? And you were led to believe that she had died in the car crash."

"Was I? Because now I don't know. I might be misremembering. I thought about the place a lot. I never asked anyone about it. Did I think it was a nice name for heaven? Of course not. But I didn't question it. Finding out that my mum was actually _somewhere_ and not choosing to be with me would be far too painful a proposition. So I must've buried the name and escaped from the reality of what it could mean. Do you see?"

"What's the point of all this?" Sherlock asked, before he thought to censor.

Thankfully Violet didn't get upset—well, not any more upset than she already was.

Her shoulders drooped and she heaved her own sigh of despair. Dropping her gaze once more, she ran a flat hand over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock felt a slight dampness against his skin.

Oh, of course. Violet's tears had made his shirt wet, and now she was pressing it against him in a weak attempt at getting rid of it.

"I don't want to run away from anything anymore," she said, frowning and staring at the wet patch on Sherlock's shirt. "I want to confront my life and all its ugliness."

"Okay. Good."

Sherlock's brief response caused Violet to look up at him curiously. A half-smile played on her boyfriend's lips at his girlfriend's attempt to wipe away the evidence of her tears.

"But I can't do it by myself," she added, exploring Sherlock's eyes with her own still moist ones. "I don't know where to start."

Sherlock's smile broadened and he dropped his head so that their foreheads touched.

"Have you just met me?"

Violet's eyes watered even further and she slid her arms up and around Sherlock's neck and clung to him, burying her face in his neck.

Sherlock stifled a sigh and rubbed her back. He thought he was capable of being a very supportive boyfriend where Violet was concerned and would comfort her whenever she needed it. But at the moment, he felt just as impatient and annoyed as he would with anyone else's emotional response. He just wanted her to get over it. Move on to the next thing; annoy him with her sparkly enthusiasm for something trivial again.

"What would you like me to do?" he asked eventually, keeping his voice low and soothing. What he'd _wanted_ to say was, _All right, let's get on with it. What do you want me to research first? Suicidal mothers or criminal ex-boyfriends?_ Probably not a good way to approach her issue.

Violet straightened up, sniffed one final time and wiped at her eyes with both hands. She moved out of Sherlock's embrace and walked away from him.

"I don't know. All of it," she answered, gesturing vaguely. She about-faced at the coffee table and stood, facing Sherlock. "Whatever you wanted to find out about before, just do it, unhindered by me." She smiled weakly and slowly shook her head. "You must've been so frustrated with me, for being so... so... _incurious._ "

" _Incurious,_ " Sherlock repeated.

"Look, I read a lot, okay? _Incurious_ is the opposite of you."

"We'll do this together," Sherlock said. And he gestured toward the armchairs in front of the fire. "Why don't we start at the beginning?"

"What do you mean?" Violet asked, walking toward him.

Sherlock moved to his seat and made himself comfortable. He steepled his fingers to his lips, then gestured again to the seat opposite when Violet had failed to move into it.

"Let's begin with Copper Beeches, and why no one attempted to reconcile you and your mother."

Violet's demeanour relaxed as she seated herself before Sherlock.

"Am I your client now?"

"Yes. Which means you answer each and every question posed to you with sufficient detail and without lies or embellishment."

Violet's expression brightened a little. Sherlock suspected she was relieved to at last find him focussed and attentive to her needs, rather than bored and impatient. Although there was a good chance she hadn't realised he had become bored and impatient.

"So, at some stage after your car accident, your mother was sectioned and taken to Copper Beeches," he said.

"Yes."

"And where did you end up?"

"With my dad and his girlfriend, Hannah, and Hannah's son. Although, I didn't know he was my dad at the time. I just thought they were family friends. Obviously there had been a bit of scheming going on without my knowledge."

Sherlock was silent for a moment or two while he stored the sequence of events in his Mind Palace, while speculative facts danced around him.

"So, you were given to your biological father, Gregory Oakes," he said, "who also didn't know your mother was alive and being treated at Copper Beeches."

"Yes."

"But somebody knew."

Violet squirmed a little in her chair. "Yes," she said finally. "Perhaps my grandmother—but she's dead—and Charlie would've known for sure."

"Charlie?"

"Charles. Charlie is what my dad called him. They were best mates, supposedly. He's the man I thought was my father."

"So, our first course of action would be to find Charlie... Charles Hunter?"

"No! Didn't you ever read my file?"

"No."

Violet exhaled a resigned breath and said, "Hunter's my mother's maiden name. She never changed it when she got married. I took her name when I was sixteen; that's when I found out who my father really was. I didn't want Charles' surname anymore and I didn't want to take my dad's name either. I was angry with both of them for lying to me. Nobody deserved to be my father as far as I was concerned, so I took my mother's maiden name instead. I changed it by deed poll."

"So what was your surname before you changed it?"

Violet heaved out a sigh.

"Adler."

-oOo-


	30. I Have a List, Mycroft Has a File

**Chapter 29 - I Have a List; Mycroft Has a File**

Sherlock tapped his phone against his lips, tuning out Violet's friend Mandi and her recount of online articles about the TELSAs. Mandi was attempting to find actual snippets about the award ceremony, particularly ones featuring Violet and Sherlock, where news about the attack on Chenoa Burton didn't feature prominently. She had only succeeded in finding red carpet fashion so far. Sherlock ignored all comments directed at him about his lack of smiling.

Finally he could stand it no longer.

He rose from his armchair, buttoned up his jacket and joined Violet in the kitchen where she was preparing afternoon tea.

"Oh," she said, looking up at Sherlock and smiling. "Do you want one now?"

Sherlock ignored Violet's offer of tea. He said, in a low voice, "Stuart Jire has been formally charged with not only assaulting Chenoa Burton, but also murdering Lauren Myrtle."

Violet immediately froze upon a sharp intake of breath, her eyes widening. As her gaze remained fixed on Sherlock, her breath shuddered on the way out.

Mandi called out from the vicinity of the living room sofa, "Are you a forensic scientist?"

Sherlock ignored Mandi's question. He was more concerned with Violet's reaction to the news that had been texted to him earlier by DI Lestrade. His girlfriend had turned quite pale.

"He broke down and confessed," he added, when Violet remained silent.

Violet blinked a couple of times and called out to Mandi, "No, he isn't." She dragged her moist eyes back to Sherlock. "He confessed?"

"What are you then?" Mandi called back.

Sherlock heaved a deep sigh in frustration. He didn't want to engage in a pointless conversation with their visitor about online articles that had assigned him with erroneous occupations—forensic scientist, private detective and detective consultant.

"Look, I'll tell you later," he said to Violet, still keeping his voice set to a confidential pitch. "I'm going to see Lestrade to find out further details."

"What... right now?"

"Yes, right now."

He left Violet's side and made a bid for the living room. He knew Violet would be hot on his heels. He probably wouldn't be leaving with such apparent urgency if he didn't find Violet's BFF thoroughly annoying. In fact, he'd created a fairly comprehensive Mind Palace list that contained all of her characteristic traits he disliked, namely, her entire personality. She constantly asked him if he was all right in that irritating Northern way. He would much rather snap at the moronic woman; she would cry and leave in a huff, perhaps never to return—he'd consider this a win. But Sherlock knew this would not make his girlfriend happy.

"He's a Consulting Detective," Violet said to Mandi, who had looked up at the pair expectantly.

"I shouldn't be more than an hour," Sherlock said to Violet as he removed his grey coat from the back of the living room door.

"What's that, exactly?" Mandi asked, posing her question to both of them.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, swiftly removing himself from the living room and drawing on his coat out on the landing.

"Is it like a Private Detective?"

"I'll tell you in a minute, Mandi," Violet said, and she followed Sherlock to the landing. "Did he confess about attacking Chenoa?" she asked him, continuing their conversation at a discreet volume.

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Yes. Probably. I'll let you know all about it when I return. Okay?"

He knew that Violet was doing her best to remain calm. One wrong word and she would dissolve into a teary mess. Again. So he ducked his head and planted a quick kiss on Violet's lips. He was relieved to receive a tiny smile from her in response.

"I won't be long," he said, and he gave her a reassuring wink before he turned for the stairs.

As he descended, he heard Violet say to Mandi, "He has a website. Have a look on there."

-o-

Violet held her breath as she watched from her vantage point by the living room window. She could see her boyfriend on the street below having words with a journalist as a cab squealed to a halt in front of them. Finally the paparazzo held up two hands in defeat. Sherlock swiftly opened the door to the cab and climbed inside. As the taxi left the kerb, Violet let the curtain fall back into place. She hoped Sherlock hadn't made some scathing deduction of a personal nature about the journalist to the man's face.

Before she had even left the window, her phone buzzed with a message. She retrieved it from the side table by the fireplace.

 _No, I didn't insult him by making a deduction about him cheating on his wife. I simply stated that I wasn't consulted on the Chenoa Burton case and I wasn't interested in making a comment about it. —SH_

Violet smiled to herself. Of course he knew she was watching from the window and worrying about what he may do or say when accosted by one of the paparazzo-cum-journalists who had taken up residence outside 221 Baker Street. In the last couple of days since the award ceremony, there had been at least one or two paps outside their front door, or (at least until Sherlock alerted Mr Chatterjee) lurking in Speedy's café keeping a watchful eye on comings and goings.

"All right, I'm not understanding this at all," Mandi said, looking up from the laptop on the coffee table in front of her.

Violet swiftly typed out a reply to Sherlock.

 _I know. I'm sorry you're being harassed about this. I love you! —VH._

She knew Sherlock wouldn't message her again. He wasn't one for pointless outpourings of sentiment.

"Well, your official website is all sorted," Mandi said, as Violet entered the kitchen to finish making their tea.

Violet stopped in her tracks and stepped back into the living room.

"What? I don't want an official website."

"It's a Tumblr page, actually."

"Yes, and I don't want an _official_ anything. I'm not on social media, remember."

Violet turned back to the kitchen, slowly shaking her head. Mandi had always been a loyal supporter where Violet's acting career was concerned. She remembered the redhead diligently scouring the papers and arts entertainment websites for any favourable reviews for Violet's play _Kara's War,_ when her fellow acting _friend_ , Alice, was gleefully finding all of the negative ones.

"What can I call it then?" Mandi asked.

Violet sighed and considered her response as she poured milk into their tea cups.

"I don't know," she finally replied. "Just not an official page. Maybe a fan page?"

"I'm not a fan!" Mandi called out. Violet heard the sound of the laptop lid clicking shut. Mandi entered the kitchen, with deep creases appearing in her brow. She folded her arms in front of her. "I'm not a fan; I'm your best friend, me, and don't you forget it!"

Violet smiled indulgently at her _best friend._

"Okay," she conceded. "Not a fan page. How about _The Unofficial Violet Hunter page_?"

A satisfied smile grew on Mandi's face.

"But no personal information, okay?" Violet added. She followed Mandi back into the living area carrying both cups of tea. "Just work-related."

"Of course," Mandi said, taking her seat on the sofa once more. "And a few photos now and again of you preparing for a big event or something. Maybe with Sherlock, if he agrees to smile once in a while. As long as I get _some_ photos that nobody else has."

Violet stifled a sigh as she took a seat beside her self-appointed unofficial webpage administrator. Mandi had opened the laptop lid again with renewed enthusiasm.

She turned to Violet, her eyes sparkling, and said, "How about I add a link to Sherlock's website, even if I understand nowt?"

Violet chuckled lightly in response. "Yes," she replied. "He might like that."

-o-

"Why am I suddenly being inundated with pointless emails and text messages requesting interviews about our relationship?" Sherlock asked, scowling down at his phone. "And how did they get my contact details?"

"Aren't they listed on your website?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his girlfriend—clearly she knew more than she was letting on—but she was staring out of the car window.

He reached for her hand. He knew she already felt out of place and they hadn't even reached their destination yet.

"Stop worrying about him," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. "This is nothing, really."

Violet redirected her gaze toward Sherlock. Her concern was spelled out with a capital 'C' in the little creases that had appeared in her brow.

"But isn't he really important and high up?" she asked. "He sent us a car. He seems quite intimidating."

Sherlock scoffed and tutted. "He really isn't."

It never failed to amuse him that his brother projected such a formidable image to those who knew him by reputation. And Violet had already met the man, so what was she getting all worked up about? Sherlock had successfully created in John Watson a hearty indifference to Mycroft Holmes's authority. It was now Sherlock's duty to Queen and Country to influence his girlfriend into having a healthy disdain for the minor Government official as well.

He smiled warmly at Violet and added, "He visited us when you were wearing nothing but a dressing gown. You held your own then."

"But now we're going to his office, aren't we—where the Secret Intelligence Service know everything about everyone. And he's somehow in charge of all that."

Sherlock rumbled out a closed-mouth laugh.

"Not today. He's not residing at Vauxhall Cross at the moment. He's in one of the other offices he holds all over London."

"Oh, good," Violet said, sighing in relief.

"We'll find him at number nine, Downing Street, in a little room at the back of the Chief Whip's residence. It smells like a mixture of cigar smoke, oak panelling, and fear dripped from the sweat of underlings."

"Sherlock!"

-o-

Violet was grateful for the security provided by Sherlock's warm hand as they followed a well-groomed woman along an exquisitely decorated corridor through the bowel's of the Chief Whip's residence.

Violet had been concerned about paparazzi photographing them entering the Downing Street building, but the town car that had been sent to pick them up along the more discreet Luxborough Street, behind the University of Westminster instead of Baker Street, had driven into a laneway off Downing, giving them access to the rear entrance. These doors were out of the prying eyes of opportunistic photographers, tourists trying to catch a glimpse through the black security gates along Horse Guards Road and the commuters travelling the busy road of Whitehall and Parliament Street.

"Isn't she going to announce us?" Violet asked after their escort gestured that they continue to the end of the corridor and had left them alone.

"My brother already knows we're here. It's highly unlikely we'll catch him in a compromising position." They had stopped outside a heavy wooden door in front of an unoccupied personal assistant's desk. "Are you all right?" he asked, obviously noticing Violet's peaky appearance.

Sherlock had dropped Violet's hand and was preparing to open the door. Violet nodded and smiled wanly at Sherlock. He grasped the door handle and pushed his way in. As Sherlock stood inside the room, holding the door for her, Violet heard the voice of Mycroft Holmes.

"Ah, Sherlock."

-o-

Sherlock opened his mouth to extol his usual observations regarding his brother's diet just to lighten the mood a little, but he paused when he noted Violet's change in deportment.

Her shoulders were square and she stood just that little bit taller, as if a transformation had occurred the moment she'd stepped through the door. Gone was the hand-wringing, brow-furrowing, worry-wart of a few seconds earlier.

Since Sherlock had returned the other night with further details from Scotland Yard regarding evidence found against Stuart Jire, Violet had remained in a state of quiet contemplation. Sherlock initially found this a welcome bit of respite against Violet's usual over-enthusiasm for trivial things. But as one day of peace and tranquillity turned into two, Sherlock found her lack of sparkle as welcome as a finding of death by natural causes. It was on his insistence that they commence the investigation into her mother's sectioning resulting in her eventual death at Copper Beeches.

"Ms Hunter," Mycroft Holmes said, extending his hand toward Sherlock's girlfriend.

"Violet, please," she replied. Her face bright with what Sherlock could now see was false enthusiasm as she closed her hand around Mycroft's. "You've seen me in my dressing gown. Surely we're on a first name basis."

A tilt of Mycroft's head and a tiny nod signified—to Sherlock at least— _I've noted your request, but we're still going to do things my way. The correct way._

Mycroft Holmes gestured toward a gold and white ornately framed sofa, the design influenced by an eighteenth century French line, upholstered in a crimson damask. He saw Violet hesitate before taking a seat.

"Would you care for a pot of tea?" Mycroft asked.

"That would be lovely," Violet replied on their behalf.

Mycroft gave an imperceptible nod to the male assistant who had materialised out of nowhere and had stood patiently waiting on the threshold.

Sherlock sank onto the seat beside Violet. He made sure he sat in close enough proximity so that she'd relax beside him. He could tell she was still uncomfortable. For one thing, she hadn't slipped off her shoes, nor curled her legs underneath her.

Mycroft perched himself on the edge of his desk instead of taking to the matching fly chair off to one side of the sofa. Sherlock did his best to shoot daggers at his older brother. The man was still assuming the most authoritative position in the room, but pretending to keep the meeting casual by coming out from behind his desk. Sherlock thought he could re-assert his own authority by standing, but that would only make Violet even more uncomfortable.

Still, as ever, Sherlock strived to make his brother squirm by whatever means were at his disposal. In this case: his girlfriend. He reached for Violet's hand and laced his fingers through hers. Sherlock noted, with immense satisfaction, Mycroft's version of 'squirming'—the tiny raising of one eyebrow and the joyous thinning of his lips.

"So, we've come for Violet's file," Sherlock began, "as I requested on the phone."

To Sherlock's annoyance, Mycroft's lips curled a little at the edges.

"You mean the file whose contents you destroyed in your fireplace?"

"Don't play coy with me," Sherlock countered. "We both know you kept a copy for your own records."

Beside him, Violet exhaled deeply. Mycroft redirected his gaze to Violet.

"That file contains papers documenting your entire life, Ms Hunter," he said, folding his arms in front of him. "What information could you possibly need access to that you don't already know yourself?"

"I want to contact my mother's husband," Violet said, as Sherlock simultaneously replied, "None of your business."

Violet cleared her throat as Mycroft looked from one to the other, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"He married my mother when she was pregnant," Violet continued, "and I thought he was my father when I was a child. It turns out... he wasn't. But I haven't seen him since I was five. He may have information on why my mother was forgotten about and left in Copper Beeches. His name is Charles Adler."

"Ah, yes," said Mycroft, his eyes taking on a steely quality that Sherlock immediately recognised.

"And what's the problem with that?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, you do remember that little favour I did for you at Christmas time?"

"There's no need for state secrets," Sherlock replied. "Violet knows all about it."

Violet stiffened beside him. "All about what?"

"Ms Hunter," Mycroft began, "It was requested—"

" _I_ requested," Sherlock interrupted.

"—that any data connecting you to organised crime was to be destroyed."

"Yes, Sherlock told me that. I guess I should say thank you."

"It turns out it was no straightforward task," Mycroft added humourlessly.

"Spare us the drama," Sherlock said. "I know you enjoyed the invitation to go prying."

"You may like to know that I took the request to mean anything potentially scandalous."

"So what's Charles Adler got to do with scandal, apart from not being my father?" Violet asked. "I mean, that's not really a big deal. I don't care who finds out about that."

At that moment, Mycroft's assistant entered the room with the tea tray. All parties fell silent as the young man arranged the tray on the coffee table in front of them. Just before he left the room, Mycroft gave the man a discreet nod. An already agreed upon signal about _something,_ Sherlock concluded.

After the door had closed once more, Mycroft moved from his desk to the chair nearest Violet. He reached out for the tea pot and said, "Allow me..."

Sherlock gave Violet's hand a gentle squeeze. He knew she was feeling the stress of this investigation. She'd already experienced an unpleasant conversation with her biological father, Gregory Oakes, about any information he may have on Charles Adler's last known location. Sherlock knew that the friendship between the two men who had both been in separate relationships with Violet's mother would have disintegrated years ago. Greg Oakes had been most unhelpful to Violet.

"Charles Adler," Mycroft began, his attention seemingly fixed firmly on the task of pouring tea into the fine bone china Wedgewood Alexandra Blue tea cups. "He remarried and moved to Australia."

"Yes," Violet said quietly. "I know that."

"Unfortunately, he passed away five years ago."

Violet's jaw dropped open and Sherlock heaved out a sigh.

"What was the cause?" Sherlock asked. He freed his hand from Violet's and made to put his arm around her shoulders, but she slid forward and began heaping sugar into her tea cup.

"He was bitten by a snake—I understand it was a king brown—on his property in the Northern Territory," Mycroft replied. "It proved to be fatal."

The door to Mycroft's office opened once more. The assistant entered carrying a file that he handed to Mycroft. The young man left as smoothly and silently as he had appeared.

"So I can't learn anything from Charles, then," Violet said, her head bowed as she stirred her cup of tea in earnest.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft said.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had been eyeing the file Mycroft had been given.

"So what's the scandal?" he asked his older brother.

Violet tutted and looked around at Sherlock.

"We're trying to find out about my mother," she said.

"And this may be relevant," Sherlock added.

Violet narrowed her eyes at Sherlock.

"How?" she challenged him.

Mycroft cleared his throat in response to their exchange.

"I daresay it bears no relevance," he cut in. When Violet turned her attention to him, he added, "If it's information you seek regarding Therese Hunter's time at Copper Beeches, I believe the staff there would be best placed to assist you."

"As I have been saying all along," Sherlock said, a little too triumphantly in hindsight.

"And I said I don't want to go there," Violet replied, her voice tight and strained.

Sherlock was quite conscious that Violet was a walking… sitting… timebomb. They had discussed the ways and means of gathering information. Violet had been insistent that she didn't want to step one foot inside the mental institution. Sherlock had been quick to end their discussion by stating that he could get his brother to dig a little deeper, but at the moment, he wanted to re-state his own argument for delving into the records and eyewitness accounts at Copper Beeches.

"And I said _you_ don't have to go," he told her in a voice pitched low, fully conscious of the presence of an interested observer. "I'm perfectly prepared to—"

Sherlock cut himself off as Violet abruptly turned from him, intent on finishing her tea preparation. Sherlock cared little for his brother's raised eyebrow.

"We'll talk about it later," he muttered.

"Edward Adler," Mycroft said, restoring a sense of order to the room. He stretched out an arm and handed his file to Sherlock. "Charles Adler's older brother. He now resides on the west coast of the United States."

"Uncle Eddie," Violet said, looking up.

"You know him?" Mycroft asked.

"I know the name, that's all."

Sherlock opened the file a little too keenly. Violet sat back into the sofa holding her cup of tea. She looked across at the contents of the file.

"That's his daughter," Mycroft continued. "Irene Adler. I'd like you to take on this case, Sherlock. Now that you're here."

"Oh," Violet said eagerly, leaning closer to Sherlock to get a better look at the glossy photograph. "What's she do? Is she a model?"

Sherlock began reading the description underneath the masthead.

"Ah," he said, tentatively. "Not interested, Mycroft." He abruptly closed the file and held it out to his brother.

"She's a dominatrix," Mycroft volunteered to Violet. He aimed a pleasant smile in his brother's direction and added, "Nothing to be alarmed about."

-oOo-

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks so much for sticking with this story even though a brand new chapter has been so long in coming! I hope it wasn't too confusing to follow, with remembering what had happened before.

I would love to read your thoughts so far. This new upload is practically devoid of reviews (except for one: thanks Guest!). But thank you to anyone who has ever provided feedback on the previous chapters. Those reviews are preserved forever on Part One. :D

Thanks again for reading!


	31. Just Get it Over With

**Chapter 30 - Just Get it Over With**

Sherlock slowly stirred two sugars into his black coffee, deep in thought. Violet was sitting across from him and she took a sip of her coffee from her own teaspoon while staring distractedly at the passersby through the café window. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this display. She didn't even know she did it half the time, he thought.

"You know," she said, dragging her eyes from the busy central London footpath, and idly waving her teaspoon in the air, "I think she sounds fascinating."

Sherlock heaved a tired sigh. Of course Violet was dwelling on the subject of Irene Adler, the dominatrix. After Sherlock had dismissively plopped the file onto Mycroft's coffee table, Violet had eagerly snatched it up again.

Sherlock had immediately risen from his seat, snapped a "Not interested," at his brother then buttoned up his jacket. He swiftly made for the door, turning to say, "And next time you're of no use whatsoever, kindly tell me over the phone. You could've saved us the trip. Violet?"

They'd left—Violet presumably in sullen silence. Sherlock reassured her that he'd find out further information about her mother's stint in Copper Beeches by visiting the facility himself. He was confident that his tone suggested no further correspondence would be entered into. He assumed Violet's uncharacteristic reticence meant that she agreed.

She eventually responded with, "Let's have coffee while we're out and about."

The appearance of the file in Mycroft's office had only meant one thing: his older brother wanted Sherlock to investigate something related to the Adler woman. It was hardly a mystery. Those sort of cases were fairly commonplace—cheating husbands, blackmailing mistresses or sex workers. Just because one party happened to be a Member of Parliament and the other a high-class escort with her own URL, it didn't make the case any more worthy of Sherlock's interest. He ought to enlighten Violet of the fact.

"My brother's fascination with the woman can only suggest one of his lot has managed to get himself photographed in a compromising position with Ms Adler. And she's probably blackmailing the imbecile. Hardly rivetting."

"She's a bit classy isn't she?"

"Not really."

"And I am sort of related to her."

Sherlock knitted his brows together. _Of all the idiotic..._

"No, Violet, you're not even remotely related to her. Edward Adler, her father, had a brother who married your mother after you'd already been conceived."

"I thought he was my father," Violet said darkly.

"Well, thinking he was your father and sharing genetics are not the same thing."

Violet sat back in her chair and carefully regarded Sherlock.

"I think I should talk to Uncle Eddie," she said.

"Good," Sherlock responded, lifting his coffee mug to his lips. "I'll have Mycroft send me his phone number."

"I already have it."

Sherlock replaced his mug onto the table and tilted his head to one side.

"How?"

"After you stormed out, I asked Mycroft if he had any contact details for Uncle Eddie, and he pulled out a slip of paper from Irene's file."

A tiny, triumphant smile grew on Violet's face and Sherlock scowled at her.

"Good," he said again. "Don't forget to calculate the time difference before you call him. You don't want to wake him up on the wrong side of the bed. Or the wrong side of the Atlantic," he added, smiling broadly.

Satisfied, Sherlock lifted up his mug once more.

"I want to visit him," Violet said.

Sherlock would never get another sip of coffee at this rate.

"Visit him?"

"In LA."

Sherlock dropped his coffee hand and leant forward.

"You do know that a phone call will suffice," he said to her.

Violet folded her arms in front of her and leant back in her chair. She told Sherlock that she had already thought about it and it would be better if she spoke to Uncle Eddie _in person._ She reasoned that he would see her as his own flesh and blood, that he would become aware that her emotions about the subject ran deep, and perhaps he'd even see a resemblance in her to her mother.

Violet finished with, "I won't have any of that with a phone call. I could be anyone ringing up for information. He's less likely to tell me anything."

"But…" Sherlock said. As always he struggled to understand Violet's decision-making when it was heavily based on emotion. "Flying all the way to LA is inefficient. It's not just the time you're there, there's also jetlag. And aren't you supposed to be shooting a mini-series soon? _Catherine Wilderness_ … or something."

" _Hilderness_. And I've got weeks off."

"And… you have to learn how to ride a horse."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that anymore. Spence said any tricky bits will be filmed with me on a mechanical horse on the back of a truck. Sherlock!" She leant forward, her eyes glistening in that way that Sherlock found both endearing and terrifying. "This will be so exciting! We can spend a whole week or two there, so we'll have—"

" _We_?"

"—plenty of time to recover from jetlag."

"Violet, when you say, 'we'…"

"It'll be like a holiday."

Sherlock froze at the sound of the word.

"Ho-li-day," he said, his tongue tasting each syllable and not finding the word pleasing to the palate.

"I've only got that one-day vocal course in a few weeks," Violet continued, obviously oblivious to Sherlock's impending panic attack. "And adhoc interviews for _Regency Road_ keep coming up since they're getting close to airing Christa's final scenes, but I can always say I'm unavailable."

"Why _we_?" he asked again, his voice almost strangling on the way out.

"And just imagine all the things we could do there—"

"Violet—"

"There's Disneyland, and, oh my God, Sherlock, there's _Hollywood_!"

"I don't do—"

"And sunshine! Can you imagine it?"

Sherlock tuned out. For his own mental health he had to. Didn't she know him _at all?_ A holiday? For Christ's sake!

"So, of course I can't go on my own," she finished, her eyes huge and her brows arched. She was going in for the kill, Sherlock knew it. "You have to come with me. It's a strange country! I'll get myself lost."

Sherlock regained his composure long enough to say, "They _do_ speak some semblance of English over there."

"But it's a strange country with... different... things. And I've never been anywhere."

"Violet, it's a…" Sherlock paused. His mind had latched onto something. "Wait." There was a glimmer of hope. A faint, infinitesimal glimmer of hope. "Say that again?" he asked.

Violet furrowed her brow at Sherlock's questioning gaze, which he usually reserved for unsuspecting clients or idiotic Metropolitan Police Officers.

"I… I've never been anywhere."

Sherlock carefully digested her words. He leant back in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. This was one of those moments when suspects' stories came deliciously undone—betrayed by their own misplaced words.

"Violet," he said, "Do you even have a passport?"

Violet froze in that instant, then her mouth fell open. When her eyes watered, Sherlock knew her plans had been blown to smithereens in an instant. A smiled played on Sherlock's lips. _Victory!_ he thought, his chest puffing out in triumph. _Of all the stupid, idiotic ideas…_

 _But, wait…_

Violet's expression had fallen and her eyes wandered back to the window. Sherlock had crushed her spirits! This wasn't a suspect or a client lying to him. This was the woman he loved! He was supposed to help her maintain her sometimes alarmingly high level of enthusiasm for life. He wasn't supposed to laud his brilliance over her… well, not _all_ the time. Had he learned nothing?

"I don't have a passport," she said, more to herself than to Sherlock.

They sat in silence for a few seconds with Sherlock carefully observing Violet. Her shoulders had drooped a little and her face had slackened. She slowly rotated her cup before draining the rest of her coffee.

"We should go," she said.

Sherlock's mind had begun calculating every possible scenario. Could he do this? Should he?

"In a minute," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving his phone.

Violet continued slowly turning her cup around as Sherlock rapidly dialled his brother's number.

After Mycroft had said Sherlock's name on an exhale as he usually did, Sherlock said, "Do me this one favour, brother dear, and I'll consider your debt to me cleared."

-o-

Sherlock was tapping away on his phone as he preceded Violet up the stairs to the flat. Violet was attempting to keep her excitement to herself. She knew she was one over-enthusiastic gush away from irritating her boyfriend. But this was something! Didn't he understand that? A step closer to finding out more information about her mother. Her dad's perspective hadn't left a good taste in her mouth. Her mother had been a bit of a party girl, her dad had told her late last year after she'd moved in with him. Her parents would snog and carry on while they were drunk. That wasn't an image Violet had wanted to keep with her about her parents. Having another person's account may give her a better understanding of her mum as a young woman.

Pausing on the landing, Sherlock turned to her and said, "Mycroft said we're to provide a headshot at our earliest convenience, and to ensure it complies with the rules pertaining to passport photos according to the UK government website."

Violet's insides fluttered. A passport! Mycroft Holmes had agreed to fast-track Violet's passport application! She was about to launch herself at Sherlock when he held up a hand.

" _At our earliest convenience,_ when suggested by Mycroft, means _immediately._ There's no time for hugging."

Violet stifled a giggle and instead smiled sensibly at Sherlock as she crossed the threshold.

"So why don't you…" he began, small creases appearing in his brow, "…go brush your hair or something." He waved a hand at her and crossed the floor to the shelves on the other side of the sofa. "I'll grab my camera."

Sherlock appeared a little preoccupied and Violet hoped he hadn't been too inconvenienced at having to ask his brother this one tiny favour. He _had_ agreed to accompany her to the US. And why couldn't he see it as a holiday? They'd get to spend time together away from London where they were recognized almost everywhere they went ever since Jire's attack on Chenoa. Violet had been her co-star, and her boyfriend happened to be a freelance detective who occasionally worked for Scotland Yard, the papers had reported. _And_ they had been in the hotel at the time of the attack! The pair had been constantly door-stepped every time they tried to enter or leave 221 just in case Sherlock had inside information about Jire's seedy past. Even poor Mrs Hudson had been questioned about whether or not Chenoa Burton had ever visited Violet Hunter at Baker Street. At least in America, they'd be _anonymous tourists_ for a time. Sherlock may even enjoy himself. Let his hair down.

-o-

Sherlock was relieved to get out of the flat and away from Violet and Mandi for a little while. The redheaded Northerner became more irritating every time she visited. _Hiya! All right, Sherlock?_ she'd say every five minutes. This afternoon she'd taken to squealing each time Violet pointed out another thing they could do in LA.

As Sherlock stared out of the window of the taxi, he let a quiet horror ripple through him. The distasteful notion of going on a _holiday_ was marginally superseded by the fact that his brother no longer owed him any more favours. Fast-tracking an ordinary citizen's passport application was something that never happened. Fast-tracking a security service officer's passport was something that never _officially_ happened. This put Sherlock well and truly in the red. And it was more than likely that Sherlock would need Mycroft's help in the near future for something or other, which would place the Consulting Detective in debt to the British Government _for years_. Unacceptable! Didn't Violet know the sacrifice ( _sacrifices!_ ) he was making for her just to fulfil this pathetic wish of hers?

Sherlock was grateful to escape to New Scotland Yard for the afternoon. Despite his brother's instruction earlier not to conduct any further investigation into the Manchester underworld figure, Sebastian Moran, Sherlock had been ruminating on the more salient facts of the case. He was itching to dive in once more.

 _A castrated penis left in the victim's mouth indicates a crime of passion_ , he thought, reflecting on the condition of both victims. Therefore, he needed to find out the sexual history of both John Douglas, from Manchester, and Ronald Adair, from London. He'd have an _informal_ chat to Lestrade, and would get the Scotland Yard Detective Inspector to liaise with the bods from Manchester. That way, Sherlock couldn't be seen to be involved in the investigation at all.

"We have all this info," Lestrade said, shuffling papers around on his desk as Sherlock stood over him. "Douglas was a confirmed bachelor—"

" _Confirmed_ bachelor?"

"And Adair was divorced from his wife after only one year of marriage."

"Curious," Sherlock said to himself. "Send me a list of all previous sexual partners, both male and female." And without so much as a 'Thank you and goodbye,' he swept out of the DI's office. Sherlock could read between the lines. But he may need Violet Hunter to help him confirm his suspicions.

But speaking of Violet, and secrecy, Sherlock was reminded of that other thing he was supposed to organise for his girlfriend. A sly smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. So he'd better get to it.

-o-

It was set then. They were flying out on Thursday night, so Violet effectively had two days to get everything she needed. She found it annoying that Sherlock had to dash out for a case. He wouldn't give her any details except to say it was urgent, and that he wouldn't be long.

Violet sorted through her clothes wondering how much warmer the weather would be in LA compared to London. Of course it was early spring there too. She felt butterflies in her stomach whenever she thought about making contact with her "uncle". What should she say?

Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone buzzing.

 _Coming back from the mortuary. Meet me at the Peking Palace, Grey Road, for dinner 8:30pm —SH_

 _Dinner? At eight thirty_? Violet wondered. And only Sherlock could make the leap from mortuary to dinner.

But it was seven now. What a pain! Firstly, she wanted to sort her clothes so she'd know if she needed to buy anything (of course, she would!), and secondly, she wanted to eat now. And thirdly, she thought, yawning, she would be too tired for a night out. Still, Sherlock very rarely took her out anywhere, so this would be something to make an effort for.

She continued looking through her clothes, but then got sidetracked once she started researching LA weather and shopping precincts in LA. Before she knew it, it was seven forty-five and she hadn't showered.

Violet had a very quick shower, then threw on a short knitted dress. She hoped the restaurant would be warm, because she didn't want to bother with tights as she couldn't find any to match that were clean. She really needed Sherlock to sort out her washing for her. He was so efficient!

Violet rang for a cab. She didn't want to hover any longer than necessary on the kerb in case of paparazzi. Although, in the last few days, their level of interest seemed to have dwindled.

She waited downstairs and had a quick chat to Mrs Hudson. Her landlady was flustered about Sherlock and Violet taking off to the US all of a sudden, but Violet told her that this may be the only opportunity they'd have for a romantic getaway for a while. Mrs Hudson was only reassured when Violet told her they had no intention of going anywhere near Florida.

Violet's taxi arrived and she gave the cabbie the address. She'd never been to the Peking Palace before, but the name sounded familiar. Oddly enough she thought it was one John mentioned when he was explaining about a case, but surely that wouldn't be one Sherlock would pick for a date?

The taxi pulled up outside the restaurant with one minute to spare. Violet paid the fare and cautiously climbed out. She wished she'd looked around first, because this didn't seem to be the sort of place Sherlock would bring her to at all. All of the shops around her were closed. There was nobody in sight. The restaurant looked like it wasn't even open. Violet peered at the sign on the door, confirming her suspicions: _Closed Tuesdays._

 _Dammit!_

A lot of Chinese restaurants were closed Tuesdays. Hadn't Sherlock checked out the place beforehand? That was so unlike him. She was just about to text her boyfriend when the tinkling of little bells above the door signaled it opening. A Chinese lady in the back at the shop was yelling at the young lady who had opened the door to the street.

"Are you Violet?" she asked.

"Yes," Violet answered, confused.

The young woman silently held out a piece of paper to her.

Violet took the note and opened it as the lady closed and locked the door to the restaurant, leaving Violet alone once more on the street. She also turned off the lights inside, so Violet was almost left in darkness. She opened the note, then used the light of her phone to read it.

 _Change of venue, sorry! A late birthday present. Walk 100 yards down the street toward lanterns. Phone has no signal. —SH_

 _What the fuck?_ It was definitely Sherlock's handwriting, but... _late birthday present_? Didn't he even know when her birthday was? It was months ago!

Violet couldn't see that there was any life down the street either. Surely no restaurants or cafes were open in this neighborhood. She looked in both directions. The lanterns were hanging over the darker end. Of course they were.

She started walking, wishing she'd found even a pair of mismatched tights, for her bare legs were starting to feel the cold. She thought she'd be indoors by now. Luckily there was no breeze tonight, only a cool snap in the air. Her boots crunched on the uneven gravelled pavement, occasionally kicking up loose stones as she walked.

Violet looked up at the shops as she went by, all closed—an Asian grocery store on one side, an apothecary on the other, next a gift store, with Lucky Cats, a variety of gold and white ones, waving their arms at her as she passed by. Silk shirts and cheongsams were on sale at the Oriental Emporium, and she passed another restaurant and takeaway store, the metal hooks in the window hanging empty—their roast ducks having been removed earlier that evening.

 _Was this a hundred yards?_

She looked around, but the unlit street behind her offered little visibility back toward the Peking Palace.

 _Fuck, Sherlock. What is this?_ What if it was a trick? An enemy of Sherlock's trying to lure his girlfriend into a trap to seek revenge on the detective. Seemed kind of elaborate. Why not just grab her in the street? Why make her walk in semi-darkness, scaring the bejesus out of her. Unless that was the point.

Sherlock would be so disappointed in her for falling for such a dodgy scheme. _Really Violet,_ he'd say as he swooped in to save her, untying her bonds and giving her a stern look. _Do you really think I'd write you a note by hand?_ Or there'd be some other obvious clue she'd missed.

Violet took out Sherlock's note once again. She stopped for a moment to shine the light of her phone onto the paper. Definitely Sherlock's handwriting. She peered at the words Sherlock had used in his note to her. No odd or misplaced words. Nothing that stood out that could be interpreted in some other way. She turned the paper over. His note was written on the back of a takeaway menu. Violet scanned the menu methodically. No items circled or highlighted. No underlining of _Chicken Chow Mein with a Get the Fuck Outta Here Violet Sauce._

There was nothing. Surely Sherlock couldn't be angry with her for missing some vital clue that this was a trap and he'd been forced to text her and write a note under duress. It would be _his fault_ that he wasn't clever enough to leave something even she could work out.

She kept walking, reducing her pace significantly. Suddenly she heard slow footsteps approaching from the side. She turned her head, hardly daring to breathe. A figure emerged from the shadows of an alleyway.

"Happy birthday, Violet," he said in a low voice, walking toward her, wearing a t-shirt one size too small, low-slung, tight-fitting black jeans and black leather boots.

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

Apologies for the long delay between updates yet again. I've put my other story on hiatus while waiting for series four. I can now concentrate solely on this story for a while. I hope to update fairly frequently from now on! Do let me know if you are still here and reading! This instalment has hardly any comments on it and I'd love to get more feedback. Thank you, as always!


	32. It's This, Or Cluedo

**Chapter 31 – It's This, Or Cluedo**

Sherlock stooped to retrieve the item he had been searching for in the semi-darkness of the alleyway, while Violet restored a sense of decorum to her own clothes, except for one missing item.

"Are you all right?" he asked her as he handed over the lost piece.

Except for a brief, "Thanks," Violet was silent as she strived to put her knickers back on in the dark.

"Um… yes," she said eventually. She emitted a tiny laugh. "Did you even know when my birthday was?"

"The second of February. But we weren't together then, so… I missed it."

Thank goodness for his snooping into the contents of her bag the other week, he thought. This was surely a win for him.

Sherlock helped Violet into her jacket. He knew she was still in a state of shock… or a state of _something,_ so he banded his arms around her and rumbled into her ear, "Did you enjoy your surprise?"

Violet turned around and snaked her own arms around Sherlock's waist. His question was entirely superfluous. Her little gasps of pleasure throughout, and her poor attempt at stifling her cries of ecstasy at the moment of climax were sure tells. You didn't need to be a detective-genius to work that out.

"It was wonderful," she whispered, gazing up at him with adoration in her eyes. "But I hope you realise, you missed out on Valentine's Day as well."

"I have no idea what that means," he replied.

This particular sacrifice wasn't hardship on his part, he reflected as he untangled himself from Violet's embrace. With the exception of wearing the uncomfortable clothing, it wasn't as if he hadn't enjoyed himself. It had been quite thrilling actually, and there was no dulling of the senses due to alcohol consumption on either of their parts. This was one occasion Violet would remember.

This sacrifice was hardly a sacrifice at all, compared to… say… asking his brother to fast-track Violet's passport. Sherlock's stomach dropped once more at the thought of the favour he'd asked for and received, and the effect this would have on his life from now on. Mycroft had effectively walked free from future punishments for the git's principle role in breaking up Sherlock and Violet's relationship last year. Sherlock had intended to use Mycroft's guilt as leverage for years to come, and now he no longer had that advantage. He had told Mycroft his debt was cleared. He imagined the control freak now sitting at his desk in that ridiculous bunker, lovingly stroking the handset of his landline in anticipation of his younger brother needing to ring him for another favour. And behind the minor government official would be an ever-growing pile of files containing the dullest of cases in existence that he would like Sherlock to solve. Ones that required _leg work._

Sherlock shook that image of horror loose and looked about him in the alleyway. Back to the real world.

"Now, where did I put it?"

"Put what?"

"Ah," he said, striding over to a wooden crate and retrieving the coat he'd left there earlier.

As he shook it out a little, Violet asked, "You're going to wear your coat?" Sherlock didn't fail to notice the disappointment in her tone.

"Of course I am," he replied, drawing on his Belstaff. "I'm not going to travel through London wearing this ridiculous outfit."

Violet narrowed the distance between them once more. Her hands gave a meaningful tug on the waistband of his jeans.

"As long as I get to see you in them when we get home. It's a bit too dark here to really appreciate the view."

"Ah… nope."

Sherlock swiftly made tracks toward the entrance to the alleyway. He assumed Violet had rushed to follow along behind.

-o-

Violet sighed after she'd chosen a pre-packaged falafel and tabbouleh salad from the shop around the corner from their flat.

Sherlock knew what that delicate exhale meant. What was she complaining about? He had prevented her from blowing her diet by not actually taking her to the Peking Palace. It was all about _The Diet_ wasn't it? _Low-carbs_ and _no-carbs_ and _good_ fats equating to a _dull_ existence.

"I was going to ask you this over dinner," she said, stopping in front of Sherlock before they reached the checkout. Her expression told him he wasn't going to like the subject matter. "But I may as well ask you now."

Small creases appeared in his brow that Violet appeared to parry with the thinning of her lips.

"Actually," she continued, placing a hand on her hip — _uh, oh—_ "I'm not going to ask you; I'm going to tell you."

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh.

"Mary and John have invited us to their place for dinner tomorrow night. So…"

"What?"

"…we're going."

Thoughts danced around Sherlock's head out of step to the most unappealing tune.

"…Dinner?" Sherlock could already taste _dinner_ —rather bitter and sprinkled with far too much contrived conversation. "Ugh, no."

Violet stood just that little bit taller and said, "They're your friends, too. What's wrong with sharing a meal with them?" And she waved her salad at him as if to demonstrate what constituted a meal.

"Why do people have to place such importance on receiving sustenance for the day? How has it become an event to be shared?"

They had reached the checkout now, and Sherlock could tell by Violet's body language that giving her an orgasm in a seedy alleyway a mere seventeen minutes ago was not going to grant him immunity from this… this farce.

Violet placed the salad onto the counter along with a pint of skimmed milk. She politely greeted the shop assistant, then turned to Sherlock.

"You invited me out for dinner tonight as a birthday treat. So don't tell me you don't think a meal out can be for an important occasion."

"But I had no intention of buying you dinner," Sherlock said as he retrieved his wallet from his coat pocket. "That was simply a ruse to lure you into an alleyway to have sex with you."

The shop assistant's mouth was already open in readiness to recite the total price of the sale. His eyes connected with Sherlock's as Violet tutted and stormed out of the shop. Sherlock cleared his throat and drew out his card.

"I am buying dinner, anyway," he muttered to no one in particular.

"That's two pounds, ninety-five, thank you," the shop assistant told him.

-o-

"You really have to talk to John," Violet said, with one foot out the door. Sherlock wished the rest of her body would follow. It was the day before they were due to fly to LA and Violet suddenly had a month's worth of _living_ crammed into the space of twelve hours.

 _But isn't it lovely that the Watsons want to cook us dinner before we go? That's thoughtful of them, isn't it?_ she had asked Sherlock last night, _after_ she had performed oral sex on him. Surely there was a minimum amount of time, post-orgasm, after which you were allowed to talk about sensible topics. Sherlock concluded that Violet hadn't observed such courtesies on that occasion on purpose. But his defences were low and he had agreed that yes, it was thoughtful of their friends. Although at the time, his agreement was communicated via a vague, "Mm."

And now here he was, attempting to find out further details about a delicious murder in North Yorkshire from the comfort of his armchair, and Violet was trying to get him to brainstorm a salad recipe to accompany this evening's meal. Because he had _so much time on his hands today._ Violet, on the other hand, had to shop for clothing and other supplies— _never you mind, Sherlock, women's things_ —in addition to attending a meeting over 'coffee' with her agent.

 _She never has coffee with me!_ Violet had voiced that morning in a mild panic. And she explained to Sherlock that she was worried about being let go—that _Polly Something-or-Other_ was probably annoyed that Violet had contacted the Casting Director directly about another chance to audition for the mini-series, _Catherine Wilderness or whatever,_ and _that wasn't how things were done._ Even though Violet had won the role after taping an audition with S _herlock's expert directorial advice_ and the minor assistance of those other actors— _forgotten their names again—_ Violet assumed her agent was fuming and may demand that Violet seek representation elsewhere.

So, naturally, Violet Hunter flitted between states of stress and excitement. Sherlock attempted to retreat into his Mind Palace several times during the morning, but Violet would call out to him from across the room, or suddenly appear in front of him, attempting to curl up into his lap, showering him with kisses to thank him once again for a wonderful birthday present last night.

 _You're so romantic!_

 _I'm really not._

Or she'd be wringing her hands and speculating about the meeting one minute, and thrusting her iPad in front of him to show him another salad recipe.

 _If only we had left-over roast vegetables,_ she had muttered as she stared at the woeful contents of the fridge. _We need to cook more often, instead of buying pre-packaged meals._

And, more alarmingly:

 _I'm going to cook for you one day._

 _Dear God, please don't,_ Sherlock had muttered to himself.

He did manage to get a word in edge-wise on one occasion—a verbal essay, actually—which had him pacing across the floor when thoughts of what the night would entail came to the forefront of his mind.

 _Pictionary!_ he spat. _And Charades! Why do they do that? Why concoct all these unnatural activities for people to interact around?_

Violet had laughed and soothed his brow and said it would be all right. _It's just John and Mary. They won't get us to play games._

But Violet was still hovering on the landing, arm in arm with her multiple personalities and moods. Sherlock would never get stuck into the Yorkshire murder at this rate.

He left his armchair and joined Violet on the landing, where she was pulling on her jacket and still reeling off suggestion after suggestion for salads.

"But make sure you ring John. It has to be something that goes with their main dish."

"I was thinking baby spinach, rocket… perhaps roast pumpkin for that added sweetness."

Sherlock had a smile at the ready to accompany the word _sweetness._

Violet stopped what she was doing, obviously stunned that Sherlock had finally contributed something meaningful to the conversation.

Sherlock leant in and gently turned Violet around to face the stairs.

"So don't worry about the salad," he said, directing his deep timbre into her ear where it would do the most damage. "Have fun shopping. And you have nothing to worry about. You're the most talented actress I know." Violet was at her most pliable when he communicated to her in this manner.

Violet finally left Sherlock in peace, but not without calling to him to start packing for their trip before she rounded the corner on the stairwell.

Sherlock hastened back to his chair.

 _Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Multiple stab wounds whose angles of entry are consistent with a perpetrator alternating hands. Ambidextrous? Or… oh! More than one perpetrator!_

-o-

"That's…" began John, frowning at the family-sized bag of pre-mixed salad in Sherlock's hand, "… from Tesco."

"Sherlock forgot to make it," Violet said, as she went to embrace Mary.

The women left Sherlock and John standing in the entranceway to Mary and John's house.

John fixed his friend with a barely sympathetic smile.

"You are in so much trouble."

"Not really, John," Sherlock replied, handing over the bag of salad. "It's nothing a pair of jeans won't fix."

He wandered into the living area, leaving John Watson standing there scratching his head. Not for the first time.

"S-sorry… what?"

Sherlock headed for the most comfortable chair in the room. It was the one he usually commandeered on the odd occasion he had visited. Unless he needed to sulk or sleep. That was what the sofa was for.

"I like what you've done with the place," he said as John crossed the floor to deposit the salad onto the kitchen counter.

"We… haven't done anything with the place."

"Yes," Sherlock said, adding a sigh as he sank back into the chair. "That's what I like." He drummed his fingers on the armrests. " _Nothing_ changes."

Sherlock critically eyed Violet across the room as she and Mary discussed the woeful parking options around their clinic. Mary was opening the bottle of wine Violet had made Sherlock purchase.

"Er… will you have wine, or… something stronger?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock waved a disinterested hand, still lost in his own thoughts about the night degenerating into a dinner party game hell and wondering if Violet would consume alcohol past her ideal intake.

"What does that mean?" John asked.

"Oh," Sherlock said, realising John actually needed a definitive answer. "Wine." Sherlock thought that if he also consumed wine, then there would be less for Violet. So that was the plan then. And as they were flying to LA in the morning, there was no chance his brother could visit and note Sherlock's consumption of alcohol yet again. He wasn't _finding a way to cope._ He was simply strategising a way to steer his girlfriend's drinking away from becoming a problem for her.

While dinner was cooking and their hosts appeared to take it in turns checking various stages of the cooking process, the conversation hopped from topic to topic: the murder in Yorkshire (Sherlock hadn't realised it had already been solved. It was twins, apparently. Twins! _It's never twins!_ ) then on to the Chenoa Burton assault and the presence of paparazzi, to the lack of activity on John's blog, and their upcoming wedding.

Violet had perched herself on the arm of Sherlock's chair intermittently, when she wasn't following either John or Mary into the kitchen and asking them about the current cooking step. Sherlock thought again about Violet offering to cook for him one day, and he shuddered.

At the announcement of dinner, Violet had just begun telling them about her meeting with her agent. Sherlock knew she had been bursting to tell somebody who would give an enthusiastic response, because apparently his reaction of " _that sounds absolutely ridiculous,_ " hadn't been appropriate.

"It's a reimagining of a fairy-tale as a live action movie. I can't say which one, but it used to be an animation."

John and Mary then peppered Violet with the names of all the Disney movies they could recall while Sherlock drained his wine glass and sank lower into his comfortable state of disinterest. He refilled the glass with another generous helping, thus emptying the bottle. He then glowered when John leapt up to uncork another.

"So you've already auditioned for the part?" Mary asked Violet.

"Well, yes and no. I have to send in a taped audition by the end of the week, and we recorded one this afternoon… but… I don't know. We may have to do it again when we're in LA."

Sherlock didn't fail to notice Violet's eyes flick toward him. Well, it wasn't his fault Violet wasn't happy with what they had recorded. She was disappointed there wasn't enough time to organise her actor friends to help. He concluded she had been counting on Sherlock's directorial expertise to give her that extra something. When Sherlock looked at the portion of the script Violet had been given to record, he had tutted and said, "What is this rubbish?"

Then ensued a heated argument about how was anybody supposed to know how to act naturally when they had been transformed into a butterfly, and how could Violet expect Sherlock to offer constructive criticism on her performance when he thought the whole premise was utterly ridiculous. Still, he had faithfully held her iPhone steady, stifled several eyerolls and tuts and let her get on with it.

" _That will have to do,"_ Violet had snapped. " _Because now we have to go out and buy a fucking salad._ "

That wasn't the only news Violet had obtained over coffee with her agent. There was interest around Violet making up the fifth member of a superhero franchise in the sequel to _Anuket's Children,_ called _The Rise of the Five. All hush-hush, apparently._ Sherlock still had no idea why Violet found that exciting. How was playing a superhero based on an Egyptian deity any better than some obscure princess who gets transformed into a butterfly?

Just what kind of actor was she aspiring to be?

At first, Violet was a bit sheepish about what her audition for the action movie, _The_ _Rise of the Five,_ entailed. She hadn't told Sherlock either, but he hadn't thought to ask. Another strike against him, then.

"I have to send in a compilation of scenes where I can demonstrate my athletic ability," she told John and Mary.

Sherlock snorted out a laugh at the most inopportune of moments. He thought they were all going to laugh, but John and Mary both said, "Oh," in a rather polite and interested way.

"So I don't know what I'm going to do there, but I've got a week to send something in as well."

Then she stabbed her fork into her steak, and Sherlock was relieved that the beast was already dead.

Apparently, both parts, if Violet succeeded in winning either of them, were something to conduct a toast to, according to John and Mary. It took the attention away from Sherlock and his inappropriate reaction, anyway. Sherlock gladly drained the rest of his glass. Most of his meal had remained untouched (" _It's too slimey,"_ he had complained to John; " _Well, eat your greens or there's no pudding for you,_ " Mary had said to him in a mock scold) and so he was feeling very tipsy.

They retired to the living room to let their food settle before serving afters. John and Mary had insisted their guests should _not_ help clear the table, so Violet cuddled up to Sherlock on the sofa.

"Are you okay?" Violet asked.

"I'm fine."

Violet obviously thought otherwise because she began carding her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

This was odd, he thought. He had expected her to be angry with him for the derisive snort. Perhaps she hadn't noticed after all.

"You're so wonderful," she said, her eyes glistening with affection.

"Yes. I am."

"And thoughtful."

"That, too."

She pressed a kiss to his check, so Sherlock turned his head towards her. He made sure his mouth was turned down at the edges. At least she'd got something right, even if she was a bit tipsy, too. Violet was supposed to shower him with affection, he decided. Sherlock realised what had been bugging him all day. He was beginning to feel less than brilliant in Violet's eyes. He hadn't solved any cases nor deduced anything of note lately. He hadn't given her direction for her audition scene, so he was suffering from lack of recognition for his cleverness. He could always depend on Violet to point out such moments for him and she hadn't.

All he had managed to do was get her a passport (any moron who had the British Government as a sibling could have organised that) and he had fucked her in an alleyway as a belated birthday present. Again, any man with a penis could have achieved that feat. He was feeling less like _Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant Consulting Detective_ and more like _Mr Ordinary Wanker_.

"Thank you for helping me with my audition today," she said, gifting him with another soft kiss, this time on the corner of his mouth. Again, not what he was expecting. "I've got a couple more days, so maybe we can try again after we've relaxed a bit on our holiday."

 _Relaxed on holiday?_ Now there was a contradiction in terms if ever he'd heard one. Sherlock hummed in agreement. What else could he do?

"I don't know what we'll do about my _Rise of the Five_ audition. Do you really think I won't be able to show them any athletic ability?"

 _Uh oh._

So she _had_ heard Sherlock's spontaneous reaction.

He cleared his throat, willing his mind to think up a clever response, because agreeing with her was totally the wrong thing to do. He at least knew that. _So, think!_

 _Oh!_ he thought, his eyes widening minutely at his own brilliance. Here he was imagining Violet as she walked down the street, texting on her phone. She couldn't manage it without becoming a liability to both pedestrians and traffic alike. But he had forgotten what it was like to wrestle with her. Granted, they had both been in their underwear on those occasions, but she did possess a kind of fierceness underneath all that silk and lace. And she was getting quite good at defensive positions because of the lessons he'd given her after their cushion battles. Sherlock was sure they could continue with single-stick lessons, too. Plus she'd stated on her _CastCall_ page that she could kickbox.

Sherlock voiced his thoughts to Violet, whose eyes widened by degree with every idea he had—finding a gym in LA, using their punching bags, perhaps sparring with a willing volunteer, jogging through LA. There was also the likelihood there would be gym equipment at their hotel. The options for recording evidence of Violet's athletic abilities were numerous.

"Why didn't _I_ think of any of that?" Violet asked, rhetorically of course. Sherlock wasn't _that_ stupid as to answer her. Evidently, he didn't have to, for she added, "Because you're clever and I'm not."

And there it was. That sparkle in her eyes that told him of her admiration _for his mind._ Sherlock felt a warmth spreading throughout, and a broad smile grew on his face. Violet narrowed the gap between them and planted a kiss on his lips.

"Clever," she whispered, in that way that suggested she'd have to reward him later.

"Oi, you two," John Watson said as he entered the room.

Violet straightened up, but she still curled her arms around one of Sherlock's.

"So…" John said, awkwardly rubbing his palms together. Mary appeared in the doorway, holding a tea towel. Sherlock looked upon the pair with narrow eyes. There was something going on here. John cleared his throat, then said, "Who's up for a game of Charade's?"

Sherlock froze, his mouth going dry. The air in the room became stifling and he imagined all eyes were upon him. Escape plans swam before his eyes, but he was unable to grasp any. He opened his mouth to object, and no sound came out. He felt Violet lean into him a little.

Suddenly, John, Mary and Violet all burst into laughter. Violet was quaking beside him, but John's was the loudest laugh of them all. Violet reached up and kissed his cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said, attempting to curb her laughter.

Sherlock frowned down at her. He had been betrayed by the one he loved.

"You told them," he said, scowling. _How wonderful._

-oOo-


	33. American-Interesting-Why Would You Care?

**Chapter 32 – American. Interesting. Why Would You Care?**

"She's lost, you know," Edward Adler lamented. Then suddenly his face brightened. "But, _you're_ a private detective."

Sherlock's insides hardened. It was bad enough that this man had little to no information regarding Violet's mother, Therese Hunter, and her short marriage to his brother, Charles Adler, but now he was monopolising the conversation to tell all about his troubled daughter, Irene. Mr Adler hadn't seen hide nor hair of his eldest daughter in the last ten years.

Sherlock knew Edward Adler _could_ see hair _and_ hide of his daughter if the detective directed him to Irene Adler's URL, but Violet was acting most sympathetic and had listened to her 'uncle' attentively. Sherlock assumed sharing the information they had on Europe's most infamous dominatrix would probably break the old man's heart. Did Sherlock care? Not one iota. Did Violet? Of course she did. And it was because of his girlfriend and her kind heart that Sherlock had to bite his tongue.

"Well, I… ah…," he began. "Unfortunately, I can't work out of my jurisdiction… nothing abroad, the powers that be have deemed… international code of conduct… red tape and all that rubbish." Sherlock accompanied his lies with a defeated smile. He avoided making eye contact with Violet. When she didn't contradict his explanation, he suddenly stood and apologised for taking up so much of Edward's time. _Uncle Eddie_ urged Violet to keep in touch and wished her all the best with her career.

Violet barely waited until they were outside the apartment before she rounded on Sherlock about being unhelpful to family members.

"He's not _my_ family," Sherlock retorted. "And if we're being realistic, he's not even _your_ family, Violet."

On the journey back to their hotel, Sherlock reiterated his offer to visit Copper Beeches once they'd returned to London. Violet remained silent, and spent the rest of the cab journey staring at the one photo Edward Adler had been able to give her: Therese and Charlie's wedding day.

Eddie had known of Violet; his family had been living in Canada at the time his brother had taken a wife and news had reached them of Violet's birth. They'd heard all about the tragedy, of course, but were also of the belief that Therese had died in the car accident. Violet struggled to inform Edward that Therese, in fact, hadn't died, and that she had been sectioned. Sherlock could detect the emotions Violet was trying to keep at bay, so he took over the imparting of details at that stage, avoiding the fact of Charles's early abandonment of Violet. Edward had apologised for not knowing much at all about Violet's family.

"My brother and I weren't close," he had said. He told of his own three daughters, two of whom had never known their extended family back in the UK. But his eldest daughter, the troubled Irene, had been sent to an English boarding school from the age of eleven, and had become increasingly estranged from the rest of the family.

Once they'd returned to their hotel, Sherlock resisted the urge to rant about how pointless this entire trip had been.

Violet's increasingly sullen demeanour since the start of their 'holiday' sounded warning bells for Sherlock. The trip had begun on a high note, he felt. The flight from London to Los Angeles had been quite comfortable. They had travelled under the best the Holmes estate could afford, since Mycroft insisted his people would make all the arrangements for them.

" _We don't want a repeat of 2002,_ " Mycroft had said over the phone, to which Sherlock had rolled his eyes.

At that point, Sherlock had strongly hinted to Mycroft that a drama-free trip allowing Sherlock and Violet to rekindle their relationship would be well-received by Mummy. "A _fter your major fuck-up last year_ ," he'd added casually. This meant that Mycroft's people's assistance in easing their way to and from the US, would _not_ constitute a favour to him, and therefore Sherlock would _not_ owe Mycroft; he wanted to be quite clear on that point. He knew he was no longer allowed to make his brother feel guilty about the break up—it was now an unspoken agreement—so carefully wording the favour as one Mycroft was doing for their _mother_ , was essential to avoid ending up in his brother's debt.

The _best the Holmes estate could afford_ resulted in the highest quality travel one could experience of an international flight, short of owning one's own aircraft. Sherlock felt sorry for Violet should she ever have to travel under her own steam in the future. She'd be in for a shock at how ordinary people had to fly compared to this, her first ever experience travelling abroad. She really hadn't been anywhere, judging by the wide-eyed enthusiasm she'd demonstrated for all aspects of their flight, from the offer of champagne on arrival, to the little warm towels, and all the way down to the reclining seats. And she could roll over and give Sherlock a delicious kiss in private. Sherlock didn't let her do that too often during the flight, though. Once… or twice… was enough. He could hear other people _breathing_ around him.

Jet lag didn't pose too much of a problem on their first day, except for extreme tiredness. Sherlock knew nausea and disorientation could occur as late as three days later. But he had plans in motion to ensure they didn't stay that long.

As soon as Violet was able to turn her phone back on in LA, she had decided to send in the taped audition for _Le Petit Papillon,_ the butterfly fairytale, without bothering to record another version. She said the one they'd recorded in London was good enough, and she now wanted to concentrate on her _Rise of the Five_ audition that had to demonstrate her athletic ability while they were in LA. She had one week to submit it.

But a mere twelve hours later, Polly Stoper, Violet's talent agent, informed the actress that she hadn't been chosen for _Papillon._ Violet had been devastated by the news, telling Sherlock that she'd never before been rejected for a role so quickly after auditioning. What followed was several hours of Violet's self-deprecating talk about her lack of talent. Curled up on the hotel sofa, Sherlock was treated to a female version of himself at his sullen worst. Even he could see that. At first, he didn't know whether to hug her, yell at her or ignore her. What did John Watson used to do in these circumstances?

Sherlock _could_ have countered all of her comments with the exact opposite remark. When she said, " _I'm the most talentless actress in Britain,_ " he could've reminded her he had only remarked the other day that he thought she was the _most_ talented. But he couldn't bring himself to say it, because _how did one measure these things?_

With her outburst about not even being considered for the role in _Catherine Hilderness_ (not _Wilderness, Sherlock!_ ) until she had badgered the casting director, Sherlock perhaps should've said something encouraging. She thought she had only won the role because the producer (that _fucking old codger!_ she had said of Henry Masters) could quite clearly see she was delivering her lines opposite Timothy Killaney and the man had probably creamed his pants over that. (Sherlock hadn't liked to conjure up an image for that one).

But encouraging words that held no conviction didn't come naturally to Sherlock. He had spent so much time pondering each of her self-loathing comments that by the time he almost thought he had a response, Violet had moved on to some other aspect of her career that she thought she'd failed at.

All Sherlock could do was offer a cup of tea.

Violet had sat up, her hair in disarray and the tracks of stale tears still glistening on her rosy cheeks.

" _I want a bath,_ " she had stated, then promptly lay back down again.

So, tea and a bath. Sherlock could manage that.

As it was a luxurious spa bath, it took an age to fill. But tea, and a good soak had Violet Hunter in marginally better spirits. She had even called out for Sherlock to join her. He wasn't sure about that. Being naked around an angry Violet would leave him far more vulnerable than he wanted to be. However, he did join her, reluctantly, even going so far as to offer Violet a soothing massage all over with soap and a loofah, eventually concentrating on her erogenous zones. It was the right decision on his part, in the end. _All those good chemicals flooding her brain_ , he thought.

He didn't receive anything in return for his efforts, which was quite all right considering he was far too scared to produce an erection.

With Violet a tad more pleasing to the eyes (and ears!) Sherlock offered to contact Edward Adler—break the ice, so to speak. He knew that initially making contact was something Violet had been dreading. When he not only achieved that on her behalf, but had organised for Violet to meet her 'uncle' in his apartment a mere ten minutes away by cab, Violet's mood had picked up considerably.

But now that their visit had yielded little more than a photograph, Violet had taken to lying down, facing the back of the hotel sofa once more.

Sherlock knew he should offer up Ditzy Land, or whatever it was, or a drive to the Holyrood Hills… _No. Holyrood is in Edinburgh,_ he thought, frowning. Whatever touristy places Violet had initially and excitedly discussed with Mandi, he should now enthusiastically mention they should visit. But he couldn't. His stomach churned at the prospect. And they had an entire week left of this?

Sherlock took to an armchair and retreated into his Mind Palace. With his virtual papers on everything related to _Violet's needs_ spread out in front of him, he finally hit upon an idea. It still involved the streets of LA, but it didn't mean they had to turn up to some contrived theme park along with the worst of humanity.

He encouraged Violet to change into the sporting attire she had brought with her for the express purpose of exercising, leading up to recording something for her action movie audition. Sherlock had researched an area in which they'd meet an interesting group of young people, no tickets required. Sherlock was surprised that Violet actually agreed with him. Perhaps he had made it sound edgy and _American_. There was even that glint of hunger and excitement in her eyes he would usually see during their bedroom wrestling sessions at home.

To Violet's bemusement, Sherlock dressed in his button-up shirt and trousers, no jacket. But he had rolled up his sleeves; it was his idea of _going casual._ At least he wore a pair of sunglasses. Both of them did. Violet had said it was mandatory against squinting at the LA sunshine.

So on the third day of their LA _holiday,_ they found themselves in a concrete jungle known as a parking garage in West Hollywood. Sherlock let Violet do the talking, while he hovered in the background with a camera. She bent the truth a little; she was a _struggling_ actress from London, and she wanted to audition for roles in action movies, but she needed to produce a showreel first. Could these _gorgeous young American men,_ she had asked in a half-posh/half east-end accent, _teach her some parkour moves_?

Eager to oblige a pretty, young, hot-looking actress from London, the _traceurs_ proceeded to show off their skills for the first ten minutes. Sherlock sunk into the shadows. It was his intention to remain invisible, so that the young men could relax and actually teach Violet something, if only to impress her. Her enthusiasm would shine through, he knew that, and her ability to charm people of all ages and backgrounds would work in her favour. And she had introduced Sherlock as her cameraman, so he appeared to be no threat.

In the short amount of time they were there before security showed up and asked them to move on, the boys had taught Violet how to land properly from a jump, slide down a stair railing, jump and grab an overhead rail and pass around or over a couple of different shaped barriers. Wall runs and cat leaps were too advanced for her, but they did teach her how to high-five properly whenever she succeeded with the _passement._ Her goal, she was repeatedly told, was to navigate an escape route during a zombie apocalypse. Since nobody was watching him, Sherlock took a moment to Google what that actually meant. It made no sense to him.

Sherlock was initially anxious on Violet's behalf, but he should've realised from their mock combats at home, that Violet was quite capable of being physically coordinated if she didn't have to do two things at once like talk on the phone and walk along the street.

During the course of their session with Violet, and while he was filming her, Sherlock had deduced that the young men were trustworthy and unlikely to mug them when they'd finished. With a nod to Violet that he had made this assessment, and as they'd discussed previously back at the hotel, she retrieved two hundred American dollars from him, and insisted on paying her instructors for their time and expertise. As Sherlock knew they would, they initially refused her payment, only reluctantly taking it from her after she gifted them with one of her pleading expressions.

Violet was bubbling with excitement after they caught a cab to one of the more touristy areas and strolled along a bustling street in Hollywood, a mood Sherlock would usually find annoying after a while. This time, however, he was relieved that he had successfully raised her spirits.

Violet still had more training to undertake and record, and Sherlock had requested housekeeping to leave a broom handle in their room for them so he could teach her a few single-stick techniques. Before heading back, though, Violet wanted to visit a couple of tour vendors. Sherlock's stomach dropped just a little.

"Our drivers know exactly who drives what," one woman practically bellowed from an open doorway, "so you'll never miss seeing a celebrity when they're out on the road."

What the woman was selling, Sherlock couldn't immediately determine. _Celebrity tours? What does that mean?_

"Is that…?" Violet asked, stopping in front of the shop window that displayed numerous photographs of houses hidden behind large shrubberies and labelled with various peoples' names and photographs. _Ah,_ thought Sherlock. _The celebrities._ He recognised the name Violet had pointed to.

There were a couple of young women in front of them, their noses practically pressed against the window as one of the other photos had drawn their attention.

"That's the house Daisy Firmington died in. The very one," the woman who had yelled at them earlier confirmed for Violet. She left her doorway and strolled over to them.

"Oh, how awful," Violet said.

The girls in front of Violet suddenly turned around. Sherlock was used to Americans turning to look at them whenever either he or Violet spoke, presumably because of their plumb British accents. But one of the girls immediately widened her eyes in perfect synchronicity to her mouth gaping open.

"Would you like a tour?" the first woman asked Sherlock.

"Oh… my… God," the girl exclaimed, staring directly at Violet.

As she stood beside him, Violet slipped her hand through Sherlock's.

 _Dyed black hair, nose piercing, pale complexion, canvas shorts, sandals and painted toenails…_ Sherlock deduced in two-hundredths of a second. His heart sank. _West Country accent. Devonian._

"You're….!" the girl proclaimed.

"Blimey!" her companion added.

The tour operator turned from Sherlock, her attention drawn to the excited girls.

"Hello," Violet said politely.

"And you're…" the first girl said, turning this time to stare at Sherlock.

" _Him!_ " the second girl finished for her.

"Are you famous?" the tour operator asked Violet dubiously.

But the girls stepped between the tour operator and the _British celebrities_ to ask for photos and autographs. Over the top of them, the tour operator demanded, "Who are you? Are you _celebrities_?"

Sherlock and Violet politely obliged to pose with each of the girls in turn as the other snapped a photo on her iPhone. Not that Sherlock really posed. Nor obliged if anybody had actually heard his dissatisfied tut. He had remained where he had been standing and each girl stood on the other side of Violet. He was glad of his sunglasses. He didn't take them off even though Violet propped hers up on top of her head, nor did he smile. This was an absolutely ridiculous situation in which they had found themselves. Even in London, they'd never been stopped by a member of the public to pose for photos. At least _he_ hadn't. Paparazzi, yes. Brits on holiday, no. Why was this _a thing?_

" _Are you British celebrities?_ " the American tour operator yelled at them accusingly, as if Violet and Sherlock were peddling their wares illegally and taking away her potential clients.

"Just… visiting," Sherlock eventually answered, if only to shut her up. Violet was now signing the back of one girl's t-shirt. "Come along or we'll be late," he said to Violet, in his best Received Pronunciation accent as a cheeky thought had struck him. He added in stage whisper, as if he was trying to address her discreetly, "Your Royal Highness."

The girls giggled. Violet arched an eyebrow at him.

Finally they gushed out their thankyous, with one of them adding, "Your Royal Highness!" She winked at Sherlock, obviously enjoying conspiring with him to pull one over on the American tour operator.

As Violet and Sherlock continued their way along the street, Sherlock heard the American woman ask the English girls, "Are they… are they… _William and Kate?_ "

Violet chuckled, having obviously heard the query as well. She encircled Sherlock's arm and leant into him, looking up, probably to share the moment with him, he thought. But Sherlock just furrowed his brow, eventually asking, "Who are _William and Kate_?"

-o-

Sherlock was glad he had taken photographs on his phone of some of the important documents from SOCA pertaining to Sebastian Moran. He'd go mad having nothing to read except boring new cases from boring new clients that continued to choke his inbox.

Violet had just finished showering after their single-stick session and walked from the bathroom to the bedroom completely naked. She was drying her hair with a towel. Sherlock didn't look up, although he was aware of her presence and her lack of attire.

As she passed him, she said, "I want to do something for you."

"Not now. I'm busy. I'm in another frame of mind entirely."

Violet paused before the door.

"I'm not talking about sex," she shot back, before disappearing into the bedroom.

This piqued Sherlock's interest. Do something for him that didn't involve sex? What was she talking about?

He rose from the chair and pocketed his phone. Sebastian Moran's movements to and from Kabuki's in London had to wait for a moment, he decided, as he crossed the sitting room floor.

"Then what are you talking about?" he asked, stopping to lean against the door frame.

Violet had dropped her towel onto the bed and was wrapping a dressing gown around her.

"You've done so much for me lately," she said, grabbing the towel once more. "I want to do something for you—help you on a case, or something. I don't know."

Violet vigorously rubbed at her hair again with the towel as thoughts circled Sherlock's head.

"Help me on a case?"

Grabbing a wide-toothed comb from the dresser, she told Sherlock, "Yes." She made her way over and added, "I don't know what yet, but I know you're still working on the Ronald Adair and John Douglas murders, even though your brother asked you not to. I think it's about time we made progress, don't you?"

Sherlock's head began to spin. _We?_ What was happening here? Had all that exercise knocked some sense into his girlfriend?

"Come on," she continued when Sherlock said nothing. She brushed past him and re-entered the sitting room. Sherlock turned and tentatively followed her. Sinking down onto the sofa, Violet said, "Tell me everything you know and I'll see if it triggers anything interesting from my dark past." She said the last bit with a dangerous glint in her eye.

There was something wrong here, Sherlock thought. If they hadn't already been through the whole "spying on him while working for Venucci" thing last year, he would have almost suspected as much.

"W-why?" was all he managed to ask.

"Why? Because I love you, and I'm completely useless to you otherwise."

"Not _completely_ useless…"

"And if I can't be a successful actor—" _Uh, oh. Here we go again._ "—then I should at least be an effective personal assistant. Come on." She patted the cushion next to her and began to comb her hair.

"How can _you_ help _me_?" Sherlock asked. He remained where he stood, one hand resting lightly on his hip. "You're worried about sending your ex—" Sherlock abruptly came to a halt. "S-sending Jake Venucci to jail with one misplaced word."

Violet turned her head and began working on the tangles on the other side in earnest. Sherlock waited patiently for her explanation.

"Well," she began, eventually. "Jake's not my boyfriend. You are."

She hadn't made eye contact with Sherlock as she spoke and he had the feeling it had been a difficult distinction for her to make. But why now, after all this time?

When he posed this to her, Violet stopped combing her hair. Her eyes locked with his and she left the comb on the sofa as she rose up and moved toward him.

"I want to do this," she said, maintaining a steady gaze. "You do so much for me. I should be helping you, not keeping things from you. We're going to solve this case. I know it's important to you. And..." Her eyes were brimming with tears. "And, this investigation into my mother's sectioning hasn't gone so well. I've wasted your time."

"Violet."

She had stopped right in front of him and sniffed back her tears.

"Fine," he managed to say. He'd let her _help_ him, if it made her feel useful and less guilty about dragging him all the way to Los Angeles when _just a phone call_ would've sufficed. Perhaps she also needed a temporary distraction from her failed audition. But it wasn't as if she was going back to London to nothing. In a couple of weeks she would be off filming that _Hilderness_ show. _Ha! Remembered it!_

"Have a seat," Sherlock said, gesturing back toward the sofa. They would solve this together, then. A smug amount of satisfaction warmed Sherlock's insides. Violet Hunter had decided where her loyalties lay. So, God help Jacob Venucci, because his ex-girlfriend wasn't going to.

-oOo-


	34. I'm Not His Date

**Chapter 33** **– I'm Not His Date**

Sherlock needed to pace as he sought to retrieve from his Mind Palace all of the data he had retained about the case. He told Violet about the similarities between the murders of both Ronald Adair in London, and John Douglas in Manchester five years previously. He gave her a brief rundown of their marital statuses, their places of work and their known regular haunts. Violet appeared to listen intently to his information sharing while she combed the tangles out of her wet hair.

She paused once to ask if the victims knew each other. A valid question, Sherlock thought, and one that Scotland Yard had strived to find an answer for as well. They'd found there was no apparent connection between the two men.

"So why are you looking at Sebastian Moran?" she asked. "I think you told me once, but I've forgotten."

"Scotland Yard and just about every crime organisation between London and Manchester believe it's Moran. There have been whispers over the years about the Douglas murder—well, you know, you heard about the penis in the mouth thing from Jake. But due to witness intimidation, apparently, there's no hard evidence." Sherlock paused here, wondering if his next point was now moot. He cleared his throat. "Plus my brother believes so, and he's…" _Never wrong,_ were the words Sherlock had spoken once upon a time, but it had been made painfully clear to both Violet and Sherlock that after last year, Holmes the elder was quite fallible. "He's pretty clued up about these things," Sherlock finished.

The narrowing of Violet's eyes told Sherlock she believed otherwise.

"Okay," she said. "So tell me all about Moran."

Sherlock recited Moran's seedy credentials, but when he told Violet that Moran had once worked as a bouncer at a club called Row 17 in Manchester, she hummed agreeably. Sherlock did not fail to notice this.

"What?" he asked, stopping mid-pace.

"Sorry?"

"You went, 'mm.' Why?"

"Oh," Violet said, rearranging her legs beneath her. "Row 17. It doesn't surprise me he worked there. It was quite famous in the eighties, but then it went downhill. Lots of shady characters were involved in it. I just went 'mm' because I recognised the name. Jake bought it last year and revamped it. He named it Kabuki Pirates. It has the exact same layout as the one in London." Violet frowned as she struggled to remember something. "I just don't know which one had its interior design changed first." She shook her head to clear it, while Sherlock's mind was racing. Finally, she shrugged. "When I used to go to Kabuki's in London, it was so strange. I'd sometimes think I was transported back to Manchester."

"They're exactly the same," Sherlock intoned.

"Yes."

He paced once more, this way and that, then stopped to rake his fingers through his hair.

"Even the alleyways," Violet said thoughtfully. "They're so… weirdly shaped."

"Say that again."

"What?"

"What you just said… right now."

"They're… exactly the same?" When Sherlock maintained an intense gaze, she added, "even the alleyways."

"The alleyways," Sherlock repeated, suddenly staring into space. " _Of course!_ " he yelled. "The alleyways," he said again, beginning to pace once more. "There's no CCTV cameras at the back of the club. We already know that. Grice Johnson tried to rape you there. So, Moran prefers to frequent Kabuki's in Manchester, despite him owning other clubs himself. And whenever he's in London, he visits its namesake. For privacy, of course. He can enter and exit unseen…" Sherlock stopped and scratched his head. He was aware of Violet carefully studying him. She was no longer combing her hair. "No," he muttered. "SOCA have logged each visit he's made to Kabuki's both in London and Manchester along with surveillance photos. So he's not entering and leaving via the back exit and alleyway… not all the time, anyway…" Sherlock's eyes widened as he made the connections he had been playing around with in his mind for the past week.

He straightened up.

"What?" Violet asked, obviously noticing Sherlock's change in demeanour.

"What would you say if I told you I suspect John Douglas and Ronald Adair had both been lovers of Sebastian Moran at one time or another?"

Sherlock told Violet about the additional information he had obtained from Scotland Yard; John Douglas had been a confirmed bachelor, while Adair's marriage had ended after only a year.

"Not evidence enough of secret love affairs. _Confirmed_ bachelor, a quaint, old-fashioned title, and given to John Watson once upon a time by the press." Sherlock paused to chuckle. "But someone gave that title to John Douglas for a reason."

Violet looked thoughtfully to the side and then slowly nodded.

"That makes sense," she said. "It explains why Moran favoured Kabuki's, if he's gay."

Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and approached Violet. Why did she keep making these offhanded remarks?

"What makes sense?" he asked slowly.

Violet furrowed her brow at Sherlock. "If he's gay."

"Violet," Sherlock said, beginning to lose patience with his girlfriend for the casual way she imparted this information when he could've had this conversation with her over a month ago. "I don't understand."

"Because…" she began, still frowning in a way that suggested she thought what she was about to tell Sherlock was common knowledge. "…if you're gay and you don't want anybody to know, then Kabuki's is the place you can hang out in."

Sherlock just stared at Violet, not believing that she knew this and he didn't.

"What do you mean?"

"If you're not out yet… you don't want to go to well-known gay nightclubs. Kabuki's is known for… well, for those in on the secret..." Sherlock frowned at Violet's contradiction. "It has an area on the top floor. It's discreet. Spence told me. For guys like… Tim."

"Tim?"

"Timothy Killaney. That's how Spence discovered Tim was gay, he told me. You know… after you deduced they were a couple and outed Tim at Spence's birthday party, I asked Spence how they met. I just assumed it was on the set of _Hibbert and Platt,_ but they knew each before then. It was _so romantic!_ "

Sherlock sighed heavily. Trust Violet to go off on a tangent about _romance._

Taking the hint for once, she added, "So, if Moran's gay and he's having secret affairs with guys like Ronald Adair and John Douglas, then he may have met up with them in Kabuki's."

"In London and in Manchester," Sherlock said, straightening up and staring into space once more. "No surveillance," he murmured, thinking Moran's lovers entered and exited via the alleyway, too. " _Oh!_ " he said as his mind seized another idea. This time Violet quirked an interested brow. "They'd have to pass through the staff-only area to gain access to the door to the alleyway. Like we did." A smile grew on Violet's face at the memory. "And that area has security cameras."

Violet's smile faltered. "Does it?"

Sherlock knew what her concern was. Violet had pounced on him the night they had reconciled, after they'd made it through the secure door to the staff-only area. She had demanded Sherlock have sex with her, if he was hoping to pick up that night. A misunderstanding on her part. But she had begun rubbing the outside of his trousers, before unzipping them and slipping her hand inside. Luckily he had put a halt to those shenanigans before things got out of hand. Or in hand. And yes, they had probably been caught on the security camera.

Sherlock explained to Violet about the security personnel who had intercepted Sherlock's attempts at gaining access to that area on the night Grice Johnson had assaulted her. The guard's retort to Sherlock's comment about a crime being in progress had been, " _A_ _ny crimes in progress will be caught on camera, no doubt._ "

"So," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket for his phone, "we need Scotland Yard to seize all security recordings from Kabuki's nightclub on the night in question."

"What?"

"No, not the night we were there."

He began rapidly dialing as Violet rearranged herself on the sofa once more. While he listened for a response to his call, Violet said, "But that means there's video surveillance of us… snogging."

 _And you masturbating me,_ Sherlock thought, but he abandoned his almost sympathetic smile to Violet when his call was answered.

"Lestrade. Information has surfaced on the Adair case. You need to get a search warrant and seize the surveillance footage for the staff-only area in Kabuki's nightclub then search for any night Sebastian Moran has been sighted entering and exiting from the main entrance. Serious Organised Crimes can help you there. I want you to look for—"

"Wait… wait… Sherlock," came Lestrade's reply. "Hang on. Slow down." Sherlock could hear the D.I. sighing and muttering as he changed positions. "Look. Start again. What new information?"

"I haven't got time, Lestrade. Moran and Adair may have been lovers. You've got to—"

"What? Are you kidding?"

"Adair could have entered the club via a back entrance, but he'd have to pass through the private area accessible only to staff. It's under surveillance, so we need those recordings."

"Wait, Sherlock. Do you have any evidence of this connection between Moran and Adair?"

"No, but—"

"So, I can't get a warrant. You know that." The D.I. emitted a semi-groan once more as he presumably hoisted himself upright onto tired legs. "Look. Unless there's a connection between Moran and Adair, or Adair and this nightclub on the night of his murder, then I can't justify asking for a search warrant. It's just not gonna happen. What's the sudden urgency? Why are you ringing me at—"

Sherlock ended the call and thoughtfully tapped his phone to his lips.

"What did he say?" Violet asked.

"What?" Sherlock responded distractedly. "Oh. Nothing. He can't help us."

"That was the Detective Inspector from London wasn't it? Lestrade?"

Sherlock hummed non-commitedly and walked over to the hotel room window.

"You do know it's something like three o'clock in the morning in London, don't you?" Violet said, a faint trace of amusement in her tone.

Sherlock said nothing in response. He drew aside the curtain and looked out onto the city bathed in the pinkish glow of dusk. They needed to return to London as soon as possible. _He_ needed to return to London. And although he was already planning to cut their holiday short, it was only because he couldn't stand to be here any longer. Now that he had an actual reason for returning to London, he had to put his plans in motion for getting Violet to want to return too.

"So, dinner," he said, as if he had just snapped out of a trance. He turned to Violet. She had recommenced combing her hair. "We can't do anything about the case right now. Come on," he said, walking over to her. "I'm going to take you out to one of LA's most famous restaurants."

Violet's face lit up and she immediately rose from the sofa.

"Really? Which one?"

"It's a surprise," Sherlock replied, planting a phony smile onto his face. "So, hurry up and get dressed. I'll make the arrangements."

Sherlock knew you couldn't obtain a same night reservation for a swanky LA restaurant without being known to the owner. He phoned the concierge, explained his requirements, and left it up to the hired help to make them a reservation at a suitable restaurant. As long as it was fine dining, Violet wouldn't have a clue that it may not be one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.

He had to wine and dine his girlfriend, pamper her and give her the most spectacular orgasm of which he was capable. And then, tomorrow morning, he'd inform her they had to return to London. During the early hours of the morning, though, he would have to make another phonecall.

-o-

With dinner the previous night a success and her physical needs attended to, Violet wasn't surprised that Sherlock Holmes had a hidden agenda. So their ten day holiday had been reduced to three. She wasn't entirely disappointed. Who did she think she was dating? If she had taken a moment to think before they had even embarked on this trip, she would've realised sooner that Sherlock Holmes didn't do _holidays._ But he had constantly surprised her with uncharacteristic behaviour in the past—he'd escorted her to the TELSAs, cooked her and Mrs Hudson a three-course meal, thought of a belated birthday surprise, and helped her with her career with growing frequency. It wasn't too much of a stretch to believe he could actually accompany her on a trip abroad. In hindsight, she couldn't really picture him on a ride at Disneyland. That was never going to happen.

Violet hadn't completely hidden her disappointment that morning, but she could detect a trace of terror in Sherlock's eyes as he told her they had to leave for London immediately. It was just a fleeting expression, and he had kept moving about the room, pacing as he reeled off all the reasons for returning home.

What had really surprised her, though, was that he'd phoned Spencer Munro in the early hours of the morning (LA time) while she was still asleep, to ask for Timothy Killaney's phone number. Violet's eyes had widened out of fear for whatever it was that Sherlock had asked Tim. Thankfully, it was nothing to do with the Shakespearean actor going to Kabuki's in the past for clandestine hook-ups. He had asked Timothy to help Violet compile the action footage for her _Rise of the Five_ audition reel.

"You know," Sherlock had attempted to explain to her, "because he was in the first movie, and he must know what they'd be looking for."

Violet was stunned that Sherlock actually remembered that Tim had a role in _Anuket's Children_. The actor had told her on the night of Spence's birthday party that he was going to put her name forward for the sequel. She hadn't expected Sherlock to remember that though. He _was_ drunk at the time and had been fixated on proving to her that Spence and Tim were a couple.

"I have a lot of important facts relating to you stored in my Mind Palace," Sherlock told her. "Plus I watched the movie on our flight over. Not all of it. Just a bit. It was appalling. You were asleep at the time."

He'd also said that Killaney was due to travel abroad to promote his mini-series in Western Europe, so they only had a couple of days in which to catch him. Sherlock had puffed out his chest a little, as if he was proud that he had provided an opportunity for the advancement of Violet's career as an incentive to get her back to London. She had to give him marks for trying.

The flight home seemed faster than the flight to LA. Violet had stocked up on magazines in the terminal since she hadn't received the _Catherine Hilderness_ script due to last minute changes. She had been hoping to have it to study while on holiday. She had hastily bought souvenirs for Mandi and Mrs Hudson while at the airport in LA. Sherlock said he had his own shopping to do, which Violet found puzzling.

There were paparazzi at Heathrow, the opportunists who try to catch celebrities arriving and departing and looking worst for wear. Violet had responded to the question posed to her that they had been visiting a friend, and no, she hadn't been auditioning for Pilot Season in LA. She could sense Sherlock's mounting tension, which only manifested itself in the form of an "Excuse me" he had muttered to a paparazzo who had asked Violet if she'd visited Chenoa Burton now that the _Regency Road_ actress had left hospital. Sherlock had stepped between the annoying photographer and Violet as they followed their driver to the entrance.

Back in London, Sherlock appeared to hit the ground running. Violet spent the day unpacking, chatting to Mrs Hudson and showing the landlady photos from the trip, as well as finding the time for a quick kip. Sherlock instead dashed around, looking for files, talking to contacts on the phone or just staring out of the window.

"I'm going to see John," he'd said at one stage, while Violet was downloading the video files from her phone.

She was glad he could now sink his teeth into the case, whatever that entailed. He hadn't asked her any more questions about Kabuki's and she was relieved he also hadn't asked any specific questions about Jake. She had vowed to herself that she would answer every single one, should he pose any. Her animosity toward her ex-boyfriend had grown somewhat in the absence of texts from him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? That certainly wasn't the case for her. Jake's last text to her was the congratulatory message after she'd won her soap award. She hadn't responded. Violet still hadn't forgiven Jake for using her to send the "back off" message to Sherlock on behalf of whatever low-life he was working for. _For_ or _with,_ she had no idea. She had preferred it when Jake was an independent operator. She wanted to give him the message loud and clear whose side she was on.

-o-

Sherlock was thankful Violet fully occupied herself with getting her audition reel prepared with Timothy Killaney over the following week. She and Tim spent a bit of time at the Islington Boxing Club, Violet's former haunt when she had lived in Crouch End. Violet came home buzzing in the afternoons with what Sherlock knew was adrenaline coursing through her veins. She had accosted him in the bedroom on one occasion. He had just been innocently retrieving his dressing gown to throw on over his shirt and trousers in preparation for a thinking session in his armchair. He'd allowed Violet to do unspeakable things to him, if only to help her get rid of her excess energy before she was due to visit Chenoa along with their other soap castmate, Priyal Gorham. It was the least he could do.

Relieved that Violet had her own outing to occupy her time, Sherlock arranged for John Watson to meet him a block from the Kabuki Pirates nightclub in Camden. Sherlock didn't want to tell Violet of his plans. He didn't want to worry her unnecessarily.

"I'm not happy about this," John said as he struggled to keep up with Sherlock's swift stride. " _I'm not gay,_ " he said for perhaps the dozenth time.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned around to face the worried doctor. It was time to address this once and for all. After all the years he'd known John Watson, and all the speculation in the press about the pair, Sherlock was probably overdue in acknowledging that he knew it had always bothered his former flatmate.

"I know you're not gay."

"Thank you."

"And I didn't say you had to _pretend_ to be gay, either."

John appeared to grit his teeth. Sherlock forgot how angry the man could get over the most trivial of things.

"Then _why are we doing this?_ "

"As I told you, we're simply asking if anybody recognises Adair from these happy snaps."

Sherlock held up his phone and waved it in the air. He'd acquired the 'happy snaps' from Ronald Adair's Facebook page. Sherlock wanted to find some sort of acknowledgement that the victim had also frequented Kabuki's. He had told John that he needed his friend to accompany him to the 'area for select gentlemen' on the third floor of the nightclub. John hadn't liked the sound of that. And when Sherlock said to "relax and blend in," John voiced his objections.

"Scotland Yard are unable to assist," Sherlock continued, "so I have to take matters into my own hands."

But they hadn't even made it inside the club yet, and already John's anxious behaviour was bothering Sherlock. John's involvement on cases these days was few and far between. Sherlock realised he'd retained the false memory that John was fairly competent with these things and could keep up with Sherlock's train of thought. After ten minutes in his company, Sherlock was reminded that this was not always the case.

As they neared the entrance to the club, John said, "So, we're just going to stroll in."

"Yes, we are."

"There's a bit of a line."

It was a Saturday night and the queue to enter snaked alongside the building and around the corner. Sherlock confidently strode up to the bouncer and gave the man not his broad, fake smile, but a fairly easy-going one.

"Evening, Dave."

The doorman gave Sherlock the once over, and to the detective's surprise said, "You're not permitted entry."

Sherlock rapidly blinked, taken aback.

"I've… been here many times before."

"Yes, I know, Mister Holmes. And that's why you're no longer permitted to enter this establishment."

Sherlock could tell that John Watson's eyebrows had shot up at not only the bouncer's eloquent delivery, but at the turn of events. Sherlock was about to open his mouth to deliver a scathing deduction, but John's hand encircled his arm.

"Not tonight, Sherlock," he said, tugging lightly.

Reluctantly, Sherlock acquiesced, but not before narrowing his eyes at the doorman. Still, it wouldn't do to be photographed causing a scene by the twitterati. He may get recognised as _Violet Hunter's private detective boyfriend_ and become a hashtag.

Sherlock seethed as they strode around the corner, back to the main street.

"So… you weren't permitted entry," John said, almost gleefully. Sherlock knew that John privately celebrated the times the detective was found to be in the wrong.

"Obviously," he muttered, scanning the road for a cab.

"You've been there many times before?"

"To check on Violet."

"Oh. Right."

Clearly, John Watson thought the occasions Sherlock had patronised the club related to his past habit of cruising for hook-ups. Sherlock assumed getting caught snogging Violet in the manager's office by Jake Venucci's off-sider on the night he and Violet had reconciled had now changed his status from welcome to unwelcome.

"So," John said as Sherlock flagged down an approaching cab. "What are you going to do now?"

Sherlock reached forward and opened the rear door.

"The only thing I can do," he replied, shooting John a look.

"What's that?"

A tiny smile began to tug at one corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Throw my girlfriend to the wolves."

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:** I'm ramping up the drama now! I hope you don't mind the frequent updates.

Thank you for the follows and favourites, and a special thanks to _thedragonaunt_ , _magentacr_ , _Gwilwillith, and Guest_ for your lovely and encouraging reviews!


	35. Not a Natural at This, Are You?

**Chapter 34 –** **Not a Natural at This, Are You?**

"And Chenoa said she didn't actually see him because he grabbed her from behind…"

Sherlock closed his eyes and filtered Violet's retelling of her conversation with Chenoa Burton. He knew these details already; Lestrade had told him. Chenoa couldn't actually confirm it was Jire who had re-entered the hotel room and attacked her. She assumed it had been him because of his tuxedo jacket and aftershave.

"But who else could it have been?" Violet said. "He wanted to do that erotic asphyxiation thing. That's why she broke up with him in the first place. And then the silk stocking was around her neck." Violet shivered and went quiet.

Sherlock's mind came back to the present. His filtering system clearly wasn't working, probably because he had a headache. He was lying on the sofa with his head resting on Violet's lap while she carded her fingers through his hair. He would've preferred her to stop speaking, but the last time he had suggested that, she grew bored and hopped up to get her iPad. She had forgotten to return because an email had arrived from Tim Killaney with his edited version of her action showreel. After she had (eventually) sent the video compilation to her agent, Sherlock had managed to entice her back again.

He had something to ask her and had been dwelling on it since his failed attempt at entering Kabuki Pirates on Saturday night. John and Mary had visited on Sunday, and Sherlock had known immediately that John had called in the big guns to assist in prompting him to work on a Best Man's speech. John had grown agitated at the dismissive way Sherlock talked about weddings, until Violet had volunteered, "Don't worry, John. Sherlock will have practise at attending weddings when we go to my step-brother's at the end of the month."

Sherlock's stomach had churned monstrously at the thought. Violet hadn't even asked him if he wanted to accompany her, but he did recall that she had mentioned the wedding last year. They had been lying in front of the fire in a tiny cottage in Devon after he'd solved the Silver Blaze case and Violet had been in a pensive mood.

She had been talking about the one boyfriend who had broken up with her—a notion Sherlock found fascinating since it had been Violet who had instigated the breaking up of her other two relationships. Naturally, Sherlock had forgotten the guy's name, but he did recall Violet saying he was her step-brother Simon's best man. She had casually suggested that perhaps Sherlock could come to Simon's wedding with her. Then she had added, forlornly, that it wasn't until next year, and Sherlock had gone into panic mode, thinking that Violet didn't believe they'd still be together by the time the wedding rolled around. Violet had been both right and wrong in that instance.

While in Devon, Sherlock had speculated whether he would be at fault should they ever break up. And when they eventually did break up, he had been quick to blame his brother. In reality, wasn't it actually Sherlock's fault? It had been up to him to either believe his brother's accusations or have faith in Violet's love for him. Unfortunately, he had chosen the former.

The looming presence of this wedding brought with it many unpleasant thoughts for Sherlock. It was a social occasion, which therefore required idle chit-chat with strangers. And furthermore, he'd have to meet this ex-boyfriend, wouldn't he? Knowing of Jake Venucci and having met Nick McIntyre, this had potential hysterical drama written all over it. But there was another issue—the wedding was to take place in Manchester, and there was no way Sherlock would let Violet travel North unaccompanied by him.

But first things first, Sherlock thought, sighing. He needed Violet to do this one thing for him. She _had_ stated that she would help him on the case, but Sherlock thought this may be crossing some arbitrary line Violet most likely had in place.

He struggled to sit up, feeling disappointed that the soothing massage would have to stop now.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Violet asked, dragging her eyes from the finalised _Catherine Hilderness_ script she'd been sent. He shook his head and dropped his feet to the floor. Violet's script drew her attention away once more.

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair. It was now or never. He knew this was the perfect moment to ask Violet something unpleasant. She'd been excited to send her video to her agent. Polly Stoper had commented that "this will do nicely," and Violet had told Sherlock that Polly had never been enthusiastic about putting Violet up for anything.

When the mini-series script had arrived, Violet had gleefully shown Sherlock the cover page. There was something about the _Violet Hunter_ watermark that had reassured his girlfriend that she wasn't going to get fired by that producer who hated her, apparently.

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned to Violet.

"Violet."

"Mm?"

Sherlock waited until she stopped reading and looked up at him.

"I need you to ring your friend Danny."

-o-

The week had started off wonderfully, Violet reflected, as she stared out of the cab window. She had felt just yesterday that her career put her in a good place. Even though she hadn't received any feedback about her _Rise of the Five_ audition reel, the production company for _Catherine Hilderness_ had sent her both the finalised script and call sheets. She was to attend a read-through in the London studios at the end of next week, and then she was required on set the following Monday in Wiltshire. She would be home at the weekend until production moved to Scotland a week later. Despite her name printed on the script, Violet had the underlying feeling she'd be revealed as a fraud all too soon. The unease came to her in waves. Once minute she was high, and the next, a curled-up ball of self-doubt.

Yesterday she'd attended an all-day vocal training course. It had been wonderful to be learning something for her craft again, mixing with like-minded people. She had been booked on this course since last year, but she had deferred it during her stint on _Regency Road._ Violet had always loved reading aloud and thought she could add narrator to her list of offerings. When _Catherine Hilderness_ wraps, the mini-series could very well be her last acting project. Although she had harboured the same feelings while she was working on _Regency Road,_ she wanted to keep her options open.

But this was something else again. Violet was on her way to Kabuki's nightclub in broad daylight to meet her old friend. Her insides twisted when she reminded herself that she'd deliberately lied to Danny, and she would continue to do so until she had what she had set out for.

Violet had listened carefully to what Sherlock had wanted of her, her script almost sliding from her lap, she was so focussed on and slightly terrified about what he was saying.

" _I'll do it,_ " she had said within seconds of him outlining the plan.

Deep furrows had appeared in Sherlock's brow. " _You will?_ "

Of course she would. It was important.

As the taxi wound through the streets of Camden, Violet clenched her fists and then exhaled slowly, allowing all the tension to leave her body. After the cab pulled up outside the club, she paid the fare and alighted.

Nightclubs appeared odd in the light of day. With the doors shut and the absence of bodies huddling together against the weather or jostling in anticipation of a thrilling night ahead, and without the repetitive thump of hip hop music from within, the building appeared cold and unwelcoming. Nightclubs weren't designed to attract patrons during the day. There were no windows on the ground floor to show the interior décor from the street. Huge grey metal double doors were all that greeted Violet.

Danny told her they'd be unlocked so she let herself in. There were a couple of maintenance people tending to lights and they paid her no attention as she strode purposefully toward the rear of the club. She slowed her pace when Danny materialised from around the corner where the door to the staff-only area was located.

"All right, Vi?" he said, his face bright with affection.

"Hiya," Violet replied, allowing herself to be kissed on the cheek by Jake Venucci's right hand.

Sherlock's instructions swam around her head. Her detective-boyfriend had allowed for almost every conceivable scenario. But Sherlock had made one thing clear to her—it was okay for her to appear anxious. She should feel awkward about her apparent request. No acting required.

Naturally Danny wanted to know straight away why Violet had asked for his help, and why she wanted him to meet her in Kabuki's, resulting in him having to travel from Manchester to London a week before he'd ordinarily commute. Violet knew she could've waited until he was due in London for his once a month trip to check out the operations of the club on Jake's behalf. But this was supposed to be urgent, as far as she was concerned.

Violet asked Danny if they could talk in the office, and she was relieved when her friend obliged.

"Drink?" he asked once she was seated in the leather lounge in the club manager's office.

Violet gave a faint nod. Another one of Sherlock's instructions: appear as if you're trying to relax. _Have a drink if he offers you one_ , he had said with a grim smile. At the time, Violet had wondered what that smile had meant.

"Bit early for me," she said, attempting to curl the corners of her mouth upwards as Dan held out her usual vodka and lemonade. He hadn't needed to ask what she'd like. She didn't take a sip and instead rotated the glass slowly in her hand. Danny wasted no time in taking a huge gulp of his whiskey. "How's Jake?" she asked.

Danny grimaced. "Are you gonna take his calls now?"

Violet shrugged. "Perhaps one day. Not today, though," she added, smiling wanly. "But it doesn't mean I'm not… worried about him."

Dan huffed a laugh and placed his now empty glass onto the sideboard. "Well, you know. He can look after number one." Dan then approached the lounge suite and sank onto the coffee table in front of Violet. "So, what's up?" he asked, leaning with his elbows on his knees.

Violet inhaled deeply and dropped her gaze to the glass in her hand. This was embarrassing enough anyway, she thought, without needing to _pretend_ to be embarrassed. She lifted her eyes once more and continued. "Um… Danny… do you remember that night you caught me with Sherlock… in here?"

The amusement seemed to leave his eyes.

"Ah, yes."

"Well," Violet continued, slowly biding her time. "Before we came in here, we were… sort of… fooling around… out there. In the passageway."

Dan nodded his understanding.

"So…" she said. "I was wondering if… if anybody saw us?"

"Saw you?"

"On the security camera."

Danny frowned at the idea. "Uh… no. What makes you think anybody saw?"

"Because of the security camera along the passageway. Doesn't somebody monitor them in a little room somewhere?"

A tiny laugh escaped Dan. "No. There's no little room."

"But aren't there…?"

At that moment, Dan rose from the coffee table and walked over to the executive desk in one corner of the office.

"It's all recorded and stored on this computer, yes," he said, walking behind the desk as Violet swivelled around to watch him. "But… nobody monitors those recordings live. It's not like the rest of the club. Not unless we suspect something happened back here," he added, smiling sheepishly. "And nothing's happened since Jake bought the place." He bent over the desk and started tapping on the keyboard.

Violet tried hard to hide her relief. This was even better than Sherlock had envisaged. Putting a hint of worry back in her voice, she stood up and said, "Are you sure nobody's looked at them?" She approached the desk, hoping that Danny was still as ignorant with I.T. equipment as she had remembered him being.

"Ah… yep. Probably. Only I have access, and of course, Scotty, but he's…" Dan frowned at the screen. Obviously, he was having trouble navigating his way through the file system.

 _Incompetent,_ Violet finished for Danny. Her friend had told her on numerous occasions that the nightclub manager, Scotty, needed either Jake or Dan to constantly check up on him and the club. Violet had wondered a couple of times why Scotty hadn't ended up at the bottom of the Thames and why Jake had recruited him in the first place.

"Worried you'd get caught doing something… inappropriate?" Dan joked.

Violet emitted an audible sigh as she came up beside Dan with her drink still in her hand.

"I'm in the press quite a bit these days—"

"Yeah, I've seen that."

"So I'd hate it if anyone got their hands on the security video and sold it to some rag. And yes," she added, smiling ruefully. "It was quite inappropriate, and I don't want it ending up on the internet."

"Ah…" Dan said, scrolling through the files. "I've no idea what I'm looking at," he muttered.

Violet attempted to curtail her excitement about his ignorance. She placed her vodka and lemonade beside the keyboard.

"The file names are date and time-stamps," she said, pointing to the screen. "See, the first four digits are the year, followed by the month and day. This bit at the end is the time. Looks like the system creates a new file every hour."

"Ah… yep," Dan said, straightening up and scratching his head. Violet smiled to herself. He had no idea what she was talking about.

"Well," she said, turning to face him with worry lines etching her face. "I'd love it if we could erase just the bit with Sherlock and me." She held her breath, her heart rate causing her pulse to thunder in her ears.

"Oh," he said, sucking in his breath. "Okay…" He bent over again and scrolled downwards. "What date am I looking for?"

Violet gently placed a hand over his, continuing her pantomime. "Danny," she said, waiting for him to stop what he was doing. "I don't want you to see the footage. You know…I'm… I'm sure you can imagine…"

Dan's eyes widened imperceptibly and he cleared his throat.

"Yeah, sure," he said, hastily retreating. "Look, you just…" He waved at the keyboard. "Just delete what you want." He rounded the desk and headed over to the sideboard that contained the alcohol. He'd reacted exactly as she and Sherlock had planned. Sherlock was correct in deducing that something had happened between Danny and Violet during their history together, although Violet had neither confirmed nor denied Sherlock's deduction.

" _So, you want him to feel awkward about having to visualise you and I practically having sex in the passageway_ ," Sherlock had said to her, " _and with any luck, he'll leave you alone with the computer to deal with the video file in question._ "

"I won't delete it," Violet hastily added. "I'll just copy over another file and rename it. There'll be a gap otherwise." She sank down into the chair, her mind buzzing in anticipation.

"Sounds like you know what you're doing," Danny remarked. He glanced up at her and flashed her a smile before turning back to pour himself another whiskey.

Violet fingered the memory stick in her jacket pocket. Did she have the nerve to take it out now and insert it into the USB slot? The hard-drive was underneath the desk and she could quickly duck down while Dan's back was turned.

But Violet completely lost her nerve and fiddled with the mouse instead. She found the file for the date and time of her and Sherlock's liaison, but she didn't want to look at it. Although Danny assumed that's what she was doing, she didn't have time. Sherlock thought it would be possible for Violet to proceed with her stealthy task while Dan remained in the office on the other side of the desk, but Violet hadn't seized the opportunity when Dan's back was turned. He now faced her once more.

"Top up?" he asked, holding up the bottle of Smirnoff.

"No, I'm fine," she replied with a half-smile. She held up her glass, and without thinking too much about it, she took a generous swig.

She needed Danny to leave, she thought as the liquid drizzled through her and warmed her insides. She knew exactly which conversation topic would cause him to flee. She hadn't told her idea to Sherlock, though. It was something she had up her sleeve, and now it looked like she was going to need it.

"I'd hate for Jake to see this," she said to Danny, as if she was watching the footage. "In his own nightclub, too. That would be the ultimate insult. Well, not the ultimate insult," she said, braving a sheepish smile at Danny who had now perched himself on the armrest of the sofa. "That would've been when… you and I… you know… and since you're his…"

Danny's eyes had widened ever so slightly, prompting Violet to continue with her trip down memory lane.

"Do you think he knew?"

Danny cleared his throat, and replied, "No. I don't think so. Would I be here, talking to you if he did?" He attempted to laugh off his comment, but it came out more like a strangled cough.

Violet arched her eyebrows and looked away from Danny as if a wistful notion had crossed her mind.

"I think he did know," she said in a low voice as if she was talking to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Danny shift uncomfortably. It had been a genuine thought that had entered her mind in the days after she had woken up in Danny's bed. "He wanted you to take me away from the party, after all."

Jake's 30th. The party Violet wasn't invited to because it had been organised by Jake's wife. Jake had eventually relented when he saw how upset Violet had been over her exclusion from his celebrations and he had asked Danny to bring Violet as his date. However, Violet, highly stressed about being in the same venue as Jake's wife, had drunk far too much. At one point—and she did remember this much—she had accosted Jake in the corridor by the toilets and had insisted on giving him a birthday present. Jake hadn't been at all accommodating and had ordered Danny to take her home.

" _She's supposed to be your date,_ " he had said to Danny rather viciously. " _So act like it._ "

Danny rose from his perch and cleared his throat.

"Uh, yeah. Dunno," he said. When Violet looked at him expectantly he added, "Yeah, look. I have to…" He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. "Ah, check the… ah… electricians. See if they're…" He stammered out a poor excuse but Violet gave him a resigned smile in response.

As Danny made a bid for the door, Violet's expression darkened upon looking back at the computer screen. She held her breath until he was through the door. When it clicked shut, she exhaled deeply.

Violet quickly retrieved the memory stick and stooped to insert it into the computer. She selected one month's worth of surveillance files leading up to and including the night before her and Sherlock's reconciliation. The previous evening, Sherlock had told her, was the night Ronald Adair had been murdered. A month's worth of activity in the staff-only corridor may provide evidence of Sebastian Moran's secret liaisons with the victim.

Violet leaned back in the chair, drink in hand. As she quietly watched the progress bar of the files as they were copied, she slowly drained the rest of her drink.

Sherlock would be so proud of her.

-oOo-


	36. Take My Word as Gospel

**Chapter 35** **– Take My Word as Gospel**

"Um. Yeah. Dunno."

"What do you mean, _you don't know_?" Sherlock asked DI Lestrade. "He's right there." The Consulting Detective gestured toward the computer screen in front of which both men stood.

Greg Lestrade scratched his jaw and slowly shook his head.

"That's clearly Moran, but that…" he said, pointing a finger at the second figure in the paused footage, "could be anyone."

"It's Adair," Sherlock replied in exasperation.

"I'm not seeing it, and he doesn't exactly show his face."

Sherlock pulled the memory stick from the USB slot and said, "Then show this to somebody who possesses better eyesight than you do."

Violet suddenly said, "No!" and snatched the storage drive from Sherlock, her face awash with anguish. "I… I just have to delete something from it."

Sherlock was stunned at his girlfriend's behaviour. "Violet!"

But Violet was out the door and halfway across the landing.

"I'll just be a minute!" she called back from the stairwell.

Lestrade lifted a brow as Violet's footsteps thundered upstairs. Sherlock knew that expression. _Flakey actress_ was probably dancing through the DI's head right about now.

"Well…" the Scotland Yard detective said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking on his feet.

Clearly the man wanted to leave, Sherlock thought, and he was probably ambivalent about taking the surveillance footage as evidence. Add Violet's unpredictable behaviour and Sherlock was rapidly losing the DI's confidence, if he ever had it this evening.

Sherlock regained his composure and turned back to his computer. As he closed the lid, he said, "At least you can identify Sebastian Moran from it."

"Yeah, but… Moran's not the victim is he? Hell, he's not even a suspect. Not really."

Sherlock huffed an exaggerated breath. "Get someone else to look at those files and compare Adair's appearances with the happy snaps and comments on his Facebook page for the corresponding nights."

To Sherlock's disappointment, Lestrade looked dubious.

"Oh, come on!" Sherlock snapped. "Do I have to do your thinking for you?"

"It doesn't look like Adair," Lestrade countered. "If the CPS thinks it's not evidence, then you're gonna have to find another way to place Adair in that nightclub _and_ in a relationship with Moran. A couple of quick snogs between two shady characters in a poorly lit corridor ain't gonna cut it."

" _I_ can plainly identify Adair from these videos. And that last one, on the night of his murder, shows Moran not exactly escorting Adair toward the rear door in a loving manner. Did you see the grip on his arm?"

"Sherlock. I think you're seeing what you wanna see. Isn't it you who always criticises the Met for only looking for clues that fit the theory we want?"

Sherlock stalked away from Lestrade, bringing his hands up to steeple in front of his mouth before he about-faced on the edge of the rug. Didn't Lestrade know by now to have complete faith in Sherlock's assertions?

"There'll be witnesses, surely," Lestrade offered weakly.

"You know what happens to witnesses where Moran is concerned," Sherlock said, gesturing angrily. "You've spoken to Manchester about him. You know what he's like."

"Yeah, but…"

At that moment, Violet came into view, rapidly descending the stairs.

"Sorry about that," she said, forcing a smile to her face as she strode back into the living room. She held out the memory stick to Lestrade. "All sorted."

The DI cleared his throat and took the device from her.

"Okay, then," Lestrade said. "I'll get more competent officers than myself to look at this." The DI threw a look of disdain Sherlock's way before he made for the door.

Sherlock tutted by way of a dismissal. Violet, in contrast, thanked the DI for coming and watched as he descended the stairs. After she'd closed the living room door, Sherlock rounded on her.

"What was that? What were you deleting?"

Violet was immediately taken aback. She stammered a little, regained her confidence and said, "The footage of Grice Johnson."

Sherlock's expression remained hardened. "I thought we agreed you'd overwrite that one, too. Didn't you use the utility I gave you?"

Violet swallowed uncomfortably. She'd said she had. Sherlock had provided Violet with a programme he'd obtained from one of his more techno-savvy geek acquaintances. It provided for the copying or renaming of a file, allowing the modification date to be reset to the creation date at the operating system level. Running the programme on the two surveillance videos that Violet didn't want anybody ever to see—Grice Johnson leading her from the club, and she and Sherlock snogging and whatever else—would hide the fact that they'd been modified.

"Yes, I did," she replied. "But I copied the file onto the stick first."

"Why?"

"So I could watch it."

Sherlock's heart beat unevenly for a couple of seconds. That was definitely a bad idea.

"Why would you want to do a thing like that?" he asked her.

"Because he attacked me, and I have no memory of it. Do you know what that feels like? I can't hate him properly because I can't picture what he was doing."

"Then use your imagination!"

The flicker of hurt on Violet's face told Sherlock that he'd crossed some arbitrary boundary. He breathed out deeply, allowing some of the tension to leave his body. Sherlock didn't have to use his imagination. He'd seen Grice Johnson with his hands all over Violet. While he would like to delete that particular memory, it had to stay with him so he could ensure from time to time that Grice Johnson never forgot.

Sherlock asked Violet, in a considerably calmer voice, "You really want to watch him leading you along the passageway, with you… barely able to walk?"

"I… don't know. No." Violet's shoulders dropped a little. "Probably not."

Sherlock gave a resigned sigh.

"Then permit me to delete it."

Sherlock waited patiently while Violet appeared to consider his offer. She eventually gave a faint nod, leaving Sherlock to go upstairs to her room. He found her computer on her bed, deleted the file then came back downstairs, where he found Violet filling the kettle.

"Is that it then?" she asked, briefly glancing at Sherlock. "Is the case over as far as we're concerned?"

Sherlock scratched his head, and stood, deep in thought. He wasn't quite ready to give up the case just yet. Scotland Yard could decide there was nothing of value in the surveillance files, so he'd be back to square one.

"No," he said finally. "Lestrade wants at least one witness. Someone who can place both Moran and Adair in that nightclub and state that they were together. So, there must be _somebody_ willing to talk. Bar staff, door men, third floor regulars…"

His last statement seemed to pique Violet's interest and she bid Sherlock not to question Tim and Spence about it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Her precious actor friends weren't to be interrogated? What exactly was the point of them?

"If not Killaney, then who? I can't get access to the club—I'm not permitted entry—and I don't want… _oh!_ " Sherlock's eyes widened as several thoughts assaulted his mind. "Bar staff," he murmured, staring into space. He couldn't access the bar staff while they were working, but when they were no longer employed there… "Not just any bartender."

"What?" Violet asked, leaving the kettle on its stand and approaching Sherlock.

"The one bartender who owes us, and who will do anything I ask of him."

With a self-satisfied chuckle, Sherlock made a bid for the door. All the planets were aligning… whatever that meant; astronomy wasn't his strong suit after all. He retrieved his coat, not missing the fact that Violet was standing still with a stamp of disapproval on her face.

"Oh, wait a minute," he said. "I need props!"

-o-

"I can put you in a cab and send you back to Baker Street if you're feeling uncomfortable," Sherlock said to Violet as they strode up the narrow pathway.

"No. I'm fine."

There was that word again. _Fine_. Clearly she wasn't. Sherlock had the feeling he was going to pay for accepting this assertion from her.

Stopping at the front door, he tapped the brass knocker, then instructed Violet to stand back a little because, "this could get ugly."

As Sherlock predicted, Grice Johnson took one look at who was stood on his doorstep, uttered a strangled swear word then attempted to shut the door in Sherlock's face. Sherlock's swift counter-measure had him inside and grappling with the hapless bartender before the man could get too far into the house. The Consulting Detective was relieved to hear Violet enter and quickly close the front door behind her.

Pinning Grice chest-first against the entrance wall with one arm twisted behind his back, Sherlock leant into him and said, calmly, "We're not here to hurt you… mixed messages, yes, I know. But I'm going to let you go, and we're going to sit at your kitchen table like civilised human beings. I just want a chat. Are you willing to do that?"

Grice let out a whimper and then nodded in case his whimpering was mistaken for non-consent.

Sherlock released the bartender and followed him into the kitchen. Grice reached the table and turned, looking warily around, until his eyes rested on Violet.

Sherlock wasn't sure he should've agreed to Violet accompanying him. She still looked a little under the weather after her return from the nightclub in the late afternoon. When she'd arrived back home, he could tell at once that she'd consumed not one, but several drinks.

" _Yes, I've had a few,"_ she had said as soon as Sherlock had furrowed his brow.

He immediately came to his senses and asked if she was all right. She'd only had three drinks, apparently, although one may have been a double, she confessed. After Violet had copied the files and had left the nightclub office, she'd thanked Danny and they'd then sat at the main bar, chatting and drinking.

" _I was asking him about Emily and Riley,_ " she had told Sherlock.

Sherlock was just relieved everything had gone to plan. He wasn't concerned about her other friends, Emily and Riley who resided in Manchester—the heroin addicts, and even less concerned that she had an agreement with Jake Venucci once upon a time, where he had assured Violet he would look out for them.

" _It actually means Danny checks up on them now and again. Jake may even pay their rent. I'm not sure._ "

Sherlock had wondered at what point he could start trawling through the security videos and ignore Violet's little wistful musings about her life back in Manchester. She had busied herself in the kitchen, only showing interest in Sherlock's task once he had found three surveillance videos that featured Ronald Adair. One of them, on the night of the murder, showed Sebastian Moran manhandling the young man.

Violet's intoxication was wearing off as the hour grew late, but Sherlock did wonder if she was up for this visit now that Grice Johnson's assault on her was fresh in her mind once more.

"Have a seat," Sherlock bid Grice. He pulled out the chair opposite and sat down when Grice did. He assumed Violet wouldn't want to join their discussion. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms folded in front of her.

Sherlock wanted to proceed fairly quickly. Grice was sitting rigidly in his seat, and Violet's silence actually made Sherlock feel uncomfortable for once.

"I want you to cast your mind back to the time you worked in Kabuki Pirates," Sherlock said.

He retrieved a handful of photographs from inside his jacket pocket and lay them in a line in front of Grice. The bartender's eyes quickly scanned the row, but he said nothing.

"Can you tell me if any of these gentlemen patronised the club when you were a bartender there?"

Grice's head remained bowed as he carefully scrutinised the photos of the makeshift identity parade once more. He made a tiny noise, then cleared his throat before attempting to answer a second time.

"Y-yeah," he replied. "Some of them, but I don't know these two geezers." He pushed two photos back toward Sherlock.

The _two geezers,_ Sherlock saw with relief, were two of his fillers: Doctor John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade. He pocketed their photos and asked Grice, "And the others? Can you identify them?"

Without hesitation, Grice pointed to one photo. "Well, this one's that actor, inne? And he's been out with her lot." Grice braved a glance up a Violet, then quickly dropped his head again.

Sherlock withdrew the photograph of Timothy Killaney, his third filler.

"And the last two?" he asked, holding his breath.

"Well, he's a big shot," Grice said, pointing to the photo of Sebastian Moran. "We had to treat him like royalty whenever he was there."

"His name?"

Grice sat in thoughtful silence for a moment before he answered. "Seb… Something. Just Seb. A whiskey man. Scotch malt whiskey. And he," he added, pointing to the last photo, "was a hanger-on. Ah… what was the cunt's name? Ronny. Yeah, Ronny. He drinks the White Lions. Rum, curaçao, raspberry, lime and sugar. Bit of a dandy, if you ask me."

Sherlock could've hugged Violet's would-be rapist at that moment, but he remained calm and seated.

"And you actually saw them together, in the club?"

"Ah, yeah. A handful of times."

"Whereabouts?"

"The… the VIP area. Third floor. Her lot used to drink up there, sometimes, but on different nights." This time Grice didn't look up at Violet. But that explained to Sherlock why Violet couldn't remember either Moran or Adair frequenting the club.

"Did you ever see them arrive or leave together?"

Grice shook his head.

"It gets busy, most nights… so… I dunno. Now and again, they'd order shots. Vodka, gin…"

Sherlock reached across the table and tapped the photo of Ronald Adair.

"This man," he said, "Have you seen him in the papers lately?"

"Uh… maybe. Was he the poor bastard who got his head blown off?"

"So you did recognise him?"

"I wasn't sure. But now that I think about it… Ronald, yeah, Ronny, that fits." He straightened in his chair as if he was becoming emboldened by his seemingly helpful answers.

"You didn't think to go to the police with this information?" Sherlock said, gesturing broadly at the pair of photographs.

"N-no. Why would I?"

"You have information about a known associate of _Ronny_."

"Don't the fuzz know this?"

Sherlock placed his elbows onto the table and leant forward.

"I'd like you to do something, Mr Johnson," he said, ignoring Grice's question. "In the spirit of assisting the police with their inquiries."

Grice frowned, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Do what?"

"I'd like you to go to Scotland Yard and tell them what you know."

Grice screwed up his face in distaste. "Why would I do that?" he asked.

Sherlock knew he was up against it, and he may have to readjust his plan accordingly.

"It would be very community-minded of you," he said, ignoring Grice's snort of derision. "And I'd consider this a personal favour to me. In fact," Sherlock added, lowering his voice a little, "perhaps after tonight, you might not see me or Ms Hunter ever again."

"What!" Violet suddenly said, interrupting his and Grice's intimate conversation. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Violet," Sherlock said, turning to her.

Violet left her spot by the counter and stormed toward Grice.

"He hasn't apologised yet! I'm not leaving here until this bastard apologises!"

Sherlock rose from his seat as Violet made to round the table. Grice was suddenly up and backing away.

"Keep this psycho bitch away from me," he said, his eyes wide and fearful.

"Say sorry!" Violet yelled.

"Violet," Sherlock repeated, attempting to inject a calming influence into his tone.

"Apologise!"

Grice scrambled backwards, turned and grabbed desperately at a carving knife from the knife block sitting next to the sink. Sherlock froze. The air surrounding them took on a strange quality. It prickled Sherlock's skin and connected him to the players in the room. Violet had also stopped in her tracks. This gave Sherlock time to quickly step in front of her.

"Stay back!" Grice commanded them, waving the knife in front of him and unable to keep the tremor from his voice.

Sherlock held out one hand toward Grice, while using the other to usher Violet behind him.

"Grice," he said carefully. "Put down the knife. It isn't necessary."

Sherlock could tell that Grice wasn't wielding the knife with any confidence. The man's main weapon of assault was a date-rape drug. This wasn't his M.O. at all.

Grice straightened up and his jaw jutted forward as he spoke. "What's necessary is this bitch getting what's coming to her."

"No, Grice," Sherlock said with a tiny shake of his head. "You're not going to do anything except lower the knife."

"I going to cut her fucking face! Slice it up!" Grice said, waving the knife in Violet's direction. "Let's see her on the telly after that!"

"No. We're going to calmly finish our little—" Sherlock cut off his own words at that moment as he lunged diagonally to his left, grabbed Grice's outstretched wrist and twisted the man's arm until the knife dropped freely with a clatter to the floor. Sherlock had Grice bent double, immobilised by his arm bent behind his back. With the soul of his shoe, Sherlock slid the knife away.

"I'm going to release you one more time," the detective said, "and I'll forget what just happened here if you'll sit back in your chair and keep an open mind."

Grice silently nodded and Sherlock once more released him. He was just stepping back to give Grice room to straighten up when Violet brushed past him. Before he knew it, she had swiftly brought her knee up into Grice's groin. With a guttural moan, Grice doubled over once more.

"Apologise!" Violet yelled at him, stepping back. She had just began to swing her boot backwards, aiming for Grice's bowed head, when Sherlock captured her around her waist and dragged her a few feet backwards.

"Violet," he said breathlessly, holding onto her straining body.

"Fucking say it!" she called over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Now is not the time," Sherlock said forcefully to her, but keeping his voice low.

He glanced back at Grice. The man had sunk to the floor in a curled position and had raised his hands defensively above his head.

"I'm…. s-sorry," Grice sobbed. "I'm… sorry…. I'm sorry."

Sherlock felt the tension leave Violet's body, so he let go of her.

"Stand over there," he ordered her. "No, better than that. Wait for me by the front door."

To Sherlock's relief, Violet immediately turned and strode out of the kitchen. Sherlock looked down at the bartender. The man was moaning and cupping his hands to his groin. Sherlock took the liberty of searching the freezer for an icepack. He retrieved a bag of frozen peas and held it out to Grice. The bartender gratefully accepted the bag and held it to himself.

Sherlock crouched down, resting on his haunches. It was time for a quick redirection, thanks to Violet.

"Look, let's just forget all this," he said to Grice, his voice low and soothing. "Don't worry about anything I've said regarding Seb and Ronny and going to the police, okay? I can see that my girlfriend's keen to keep visiting you, so we'll stick to my earlier promise, where we just pop into your life now and again and make sure you're doing okay. And if you're not… well, Violet will probably deal with you in her own special way. So don't worry about giving a statement to the police. Forget I said anything."

Sherlock straightened up once more, prompting Grice to blink confusedly up at him.

"W-what?" the injured man asked. "What does that mean?"

"I'm sure we'll see you again before too long," Sherlock said, gifting Grice with a congenial smile. "Don't you worry about a thing."

Sherlock turned to leave. As if on cue, Grice urged Sherlock to wait.

Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to creep onto his face while his back was turned on the bartender. Quickly resuming a mask of indifference, he turned back around.

"I'll do it," Grice said in a strained voice.

"Do what?"

"G-go to the police." The man's eyebrows were arched in desperation. "M-make a statement."

Sherlock received assurances from Grice Johnson that he would attend Scotland Yard in a day or two, after he'd recovered from their visit, naturally, and state that he had recognised the victim from the photos in the paper as being a sometime patron of the nightclub and seen in the company of an older gentleman called Seb, who Grice knew to be of dubious reputation.

Satisfied with their newly independent witness, Sherlock left the kitchen only to find that Violet wasn't waiting for him at the front entrance. He swiftly exited the premises, hoping his partner in crime was simply waiting around the block in the direction they had originated from.

As he neared the semi-lit street corner, Sherlock was relieved to see the outline of his girlfriend. She had her back to him. They were still a few hundred yards from the High Street where they could hail a cab, however.

"Good strategy," he said, striding up. "Good cop, bad cop. A bit predictable, but it seemed to work on our friend. Though I'm not sure you should've—"

He stopped when Violet turned to face him with tear-stained eyes. The words dried up in his mouth. His impression of what had just gone down in Grice Johnson's house was totally the wrong one.

He stood, looking at her for a few seconds before his next instinct was the correct one. _Of course. How stupid of me_ , he thought, reaching for her. He wrapped his arms around her, thinking, _You weren't acting at all, were you?_

-oOo-


	37. He Died Because I Shook His Hand

**Chapter 36 – He Died Because I Shook His Hand**

They'd limped toward the weekend, with Violet largely self-absorbed and Sherlock brooding about the case. Violet was grateful for Sherlock's embraces later in the evening even though she was silent in the cab on the way home after visiting that disgusting excuse for a human being. She showered and changed into pyjamas and her dressing gown while Sherlock ordered food from his favourite Chinese restaurant.

They had eaten in relative silence. Violet turned on the telly because she couldn't stand the quiet, but nor did she want to engage in any kind of conversation with Sherlock. She wasn't upset with him _at all_ and she knew he was at a loss for what he could do for her. She just didn't want to vocalise what she was feeling, and there was nothing she wanted Sherlock to do or say.

When he was rinsing the plates and putting the leftovers into the fridge, she approached him. He seemed surprised at her close proximity. But when she slipped her arms around his waist, he enveloped her in his own arms and rested his chin atop her head. After a few seconds, Sherlock uttered just one word. _"I…_ "

Violet thought he wanted to say, _I don't know what to do,_ or _I don't know what to say._ In response, she said, "Just hold me. That's all I need from you." And he seemed satisfied with that.

Violet spent Friday shopping with her _ex_ - _Regency Road_ co-stars, Chenoa and Priyal. She was relieved Chenoa was keen to leave her flat with the support of her friends, but the blonde actress didn't want to talk about the assault any more, understandably. After her heart to heart conversation with both Violet and Priyal when they had visited her previously, the soap star seemed keen to get on with activities to keep her distracted. Violet felt that her personal feelings toward her own assault were fraudulent in comparison.

She would go through phases of anger, then confusion. She didn't want to remember Grice's assault, but neither did she want to shrug off the incident as if it had never happened. She felt she ought to react in some way. Bullying Grice Johnson into apologising hadn't helped one bit.

How much would she have hurt him, she wondered. How much damage could she have inflicted if Sherlock hadn't pulled her away? She knew she had given him severe injuries during their first visit. And horrifyingly, Violet found that easy to do. But on that occasion, it was a role she assumed, using emotions she felt she ought to have, and using offensive tactics she rehearsed in her mind. This time, the anger came from within. It consumed her, frightening her in the process.

Violet felt that her life with Jacob Venucci had been some sort of alternate universe. Of course, there were plenty of good memories, but their lifestyle was completely different to any she experienced before she met Jake, and any she lived since breaking up with him. In recent times, there were too many incidents that seemed to put her back into that sleazy underworld existence—having Sherlock work on this case, visiting Emily and Riley in Manchester in that hovel after Sherlock had solved the Holder case, and most recently her violent encounter with Grice Johnson. It clashed with her blossoming acting career, with its false celebrity and self-congratulatory events. And somewhere in the middle, was her home life with Sherlock Holmes.

Yesterday she was beating up a low-life rapist, interrupting her boyfriend as he negotiated terms with the fucker to give evidence against a ruthless gangster in exchange for Violet Hunter not smashing his fucking sleazy face against a brick wall on some future occasion. Today she was shopping for a new outfit to wear to a breakfast television interview on Monday morning. She lived two lives.

Her upcoming scenes on the TV soap were airing next week—Christa's final scenes where the father of her baby was to be revealed, not that she could comment on the specific details of the episode beforehand. They'll also ask her about her role in the period drama, the _Catherine Hilderness_ mini-series. And Violet will talk about how excited she is to work with acclaimed director Damian Oakeshott, opposite the award-winning actor, Sir Henry Masters. Perhaps they'll just ask her to tell them what she'd been doing lately since leaving Britain's favourite street? What would she tell them?

Violet knew, while sitting on the damask sofa on the Brekky TV set with Kirsty Willeme's bleached smile, that her thoughts would stray to Grice Johnson, the man who had tried to sexually assault her, and she would remember how much she had wanted him dead.

-o-

Grice Johnson had been murdered.

Of this, Sherlock was sure. But how and when to tell Violet?

He'd just finished talking to Lestrade, but Violet was out of the flat, jogging in her bid to keep fit and healthy. Sherlock didn't mind that at all, because it usually meant she'd strive to curb her alcohol intake. The actress was fully focused on her career this week, in the lead up to leaving for Wiltshire for filming.

His girlfriend appeared on Brekky TV at the beginning of the week, and yes, he'd watched Violet acting as _Violet Hunter, the Actor._ He didn't particularly like that person. She seemed to get along with everyone and found the hosts' jokes funny. He didn't tell her that though, preferring to comment that it looked like she was enjoying herself.

On Wednesday, she had a panicked last minute audition for a movie that " _Andrea Fabenaski has dropped out of, Sherlock, you have no idea what that means._ " Violet was correct in her assessment. He had no idea what that meant and who Andrea Faber-whatsit was. His girlfriend neglected to add, _And nor do you care,_ because that would've been more accurate. So he helped her pick out suitable attire, yet again, and accompanied her to the casting director's tiny attic office in Soho, where they filmed screen tests. Apparently, this Andrea actress was also represented by Polly Stoper, but another project meant she was no longer available for this particular role. Polly offered up Violet's name as an alternative.

Sherlock waited in a coffee shop to accompany Violet back home again. Her pre-audition anxiety prompted her to complain earlier that morning that she no longer had her good friend Spence available to accompany her to auditions and someone to whom she could rant and rave afterwards. Sherlock realised, after long gaps of silence, that _he_ was supposed to offer himself as a replacement. Or perhaps Violet's words of, " _So what will you be doing all day?_ " clinched the deal for her.

As it turned out, her post-audition monologue simply consisted of, " _I don't know how I did. I don't want to talk about it._ "

Sherlock knew the closer Friday loomed, with her _Catherine Hilderness_ read-through, the more stressed she was becoming. He didn't want to add the apparent murder of her would-be rapist to the mix.

Sherlock had wanted to hurl his phone across the room when the DI casually informed him. Of course, Lestrade didn't have any idea how significant this information was. Sherlock phoned to ask how they were getting on with the surveillance files, having heard nothing over the weekend.

"Yeah, well, things move a bit slower around here," Lestrade said to him, pausing to take a sip of coffee, no doubt. "We've conducted interviews with the staff at Kabuki's. Nothing's come up yet. Some of them seem a bit cagey about saying they recognise Moran, and nobody's identified Adair yet."

Sherlock hesitatingly asked, "So… nobody else has contacted you independently of your staff interviews?"

"Ah… no."

Sherlock exhaled impatiently.

"Grice Johnson," he offered, not being able to stand the wait any longer. "An ex-bartender at the nightclub, and one who knew just about everything about everybody. Has he been questioned?"

"Well… hang on."

Sherlock began pacing while Lestrade presumably consulted some sort of list.

"No… but why would we—"

"Previous employees," Sherlock said. "Surely you've thought of that?"

"No. Not yet. But why are you interested in this…this…"

"Grice Johnson. He's been helpful in the past," Sherlock replied vaguely.

"Right. I'll note that down… hang on… Grice Johnson… Grice… not a usual name."

Sherlock's skin began to prickle and he stopped pacing.

"Grice…" Lestrade murmured again. He was obviously occupying himself with obtaining further information from some computer system. "Yeah… here. Grice Johnson. Date of birth: the 25th of August, 1982. Found washed ashore near Richmond Bridge two days ago." Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat. Lestrade's next lot of words faded into the distance. "Passing jogger found him. Only been there approximately forty-eight hours. No evidence of violence. Port-mortem reveals the poor bastard drowned. His jacket was left on the bank along with his shoes, like he'd placed them there. Cash in his wallet. Must've been no current that night. His body was found a hundred yards downstream from his belongings. Sometimes we never find them for weeks."

Sherlock's mouth ran dry and his head buzzed in confusion.

"Sherlock."

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. _Suicide._ _But no. Unlikely._

"You still there?"

Sherlock blinked several times, then cleared his throat.

"Ah… yes," he replied. "Who conducted the post-mortem?"

Lestrade informed him that the body hadn't been taken to Bart's mortuary, unfortunately, so Sherlock knew he couldn't get access to any further information. Molly Hooper hadn't performed the PM then. But it didn't matter. The man was dead. It wouldn't do Sherlock any good to raise the suspicion that it may not be suicide. Would investigations into the man's last days reveal that he had been visited by a shady-looking couple just two days before his supposed murder, and that he had looked the worse for wear after that visit? And what of Sherlock and Violet's initial visit just under two months ago? What explanation had Grice given his girlfriend for his injuries after that one?

The man had obviously fallen afoul of Sebastian Moran's method of removing witnesses. But how did Moran know that Grice had this information?

Sherlock asked Lestrade if the ex-bartender had appeared depressed to those close to him.

"His girlfriend said he'd lost his job the week before. He worked for one of those diet companies. Home deliveries. But she said he frequently changed jobs. Got bored apparently. Nothing new there. And in the couple of days before his death, he seemed… I don't know… happy, she said. Like he'd received good news."

 _Good news,_ Sherlock thought. Perhaps the news that Sherlock Holmes and Violet Hunter would no longer visit him if he did this one favour for the detective was enough to change his outlook on life. But had the man told somebody what he knew? Boasted about having information that may help the police with their enquiries into the death of Ronald (Ronny) Adair?

"But, you know how it is," Lestrade went on. "Some people do actually appear happier right before they… you know… top themselves, because they've already made plans… Still, there'll be a Coroner's Inquest in a month. But they rarely uncover anything new under these circumstances."

Sherlock remained quietly contemplative, but when he heard the front door slam shut and Violet's swift tread on the stairs, he bid the detective a goodbye.

"I've just been doorstepped!" she yelled on her way past the living room door. As Sherlock looked up, Violet had already commenced heading upstairs to her room. She called down, "And I support paedophiles, apparently!"

-o-

 _Fucking Phillip Green and Frances Carfax,_ Violet thought, fuming as she threw her sportswear onto the floor. _And the fucking Met._

It wasn't too hard to make a deduction, she mused as she turned on the hot water and waited for it to warm up. Violet's controversial scene as Christa Barlow had aired yesterday, causing headlines and debate online. It was revealed that her character had previously engaged in a brief, but sexual, affair with her boyfriend's father before they'd arrived in Regency Road resulting in the baby son she was about to abandon. Violet knew the soap-watching public would be aghast, and she was relieved she'd be away filming next week, and was unavailable to be interviewed on Brekky TV. What she hadn't counted on, was some _fucking arsehole_ from the Met—an unnamed source, no doubt—telling the press that she had been Sherlock Holmes's assistant during the missing teen case last year, and supported the highschool student's love affair with her teacher.

So, naturally it was implied Violet Hunter fully endorsed the onscreen affair between her teenage character and one of _Regency Road's_ most loveable dads (until now). The tabloid journalists that were currently camped out on 221B's doorstep asked Violet if she could offer a comment about the paedophile teacher, Phillip Green, and his incarceration and inclusion on the nation's _Violent and Sex Offender Register_ , and did she consider the runaway teen, Frances Carfax, a victim at all?

Violet turned on the cold water tap, tested that the overall temperature was a couple of degrees below lukewarm, and stepped into the stall.

She didn't warm down properly, she thought. She'd pay for that later. Her chest still heaved; she was out of breath from her alternating sprint-jog around Regent's Park. And then she sprinted up the stairs after leaving the journalists with a muttered, "Not answering any questions today, thanks."

This current drama almost eclipsed everything else. Violet's fitness routine these days consisted of her pushing herself above and beyond her limits, punishing herself, and feeling every muscle burn in protest. It seemed to be the only way to get rid of the aggression she felt toward Grice Johnson.

"It'll blow over soon," came a voice from the bathroom doorway. His soothing baritone warmed her immediately. "It always does, once people find something else to talk about."

Violet wiped the steam from the shower screen so she could see Sherlock, who was casually leaning against the doorframe.

"It was one of your Scotland Yard mates who went to the press," she told him, assuming he was up to speed. He _was_ Sherlock Holmes after all. "Probably DI Lestrade, since he hates me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"You said he did, last year."

"Well, that was last year. And I always prove him to be wrong after a fashion. Anyway, Lestrade would never go to the press."

"It was somebody then."

"Of course it was _somebody_. News would've spread throughout the CID about your panic attack on our way to Phillip Green's hideaway in Hackney."

Violet brooded. Why did the whole world have to talk and gossip? Why couldn't the idle population have their collective mouths taped shut?

Violet turned around and began to lather her hair with shampoo.

"I'll put the kettle on," Sherlock bid her from the doorway.

"They'll start calling you a paedophile soon," Violet said, yelling above the shower spray.

"Why?"

"Because everyone thinks I'm a teenager. That's all I can do, apparently. Catherine Hilderness is nineteen. Christa Barlow was seventeen. And I look like a teenager, don't I?" Without waiting for an answer she stepped back underneath the water and rinsed the suds from her hair. Calling out again she said, "You're dating a teenager!"

Violet finished in the shower still absorbed in her own little world. Sherlock had left her at some stage. She acknowledged that he had been quite patient with her over the past week. She'd been behaving like a… _flakey actress,_ she thought, recalling the words Sherlock had used for her when he had made excuses on her behalf for Detective Inspector Lestrade last year. She felt tiny pangs of guilt about her selfishness. She was leaving on Sunday, so she decided she would be a lot more considerate over the next few days and lavish Sherlock with a lot of attention.

-o-

Violet dutifully typed the dates into a spreadsheet as Sherlock read them out to her. They were trawling through Ronny Adair's Facebook page and noting whichever status updates implied the young man was about to embark on a night out. Sherlock wanted to compare these dates and times with CCTV footage for cameras around Camden, specifically in the streets surrounding the Kabuki Pirates nightclub. Even if Adair wasn't caught on camera entering the club—because he may have used the entrance via the alleyway—he may be shown in close proximity to Kabuki's. Well, Sherlock had thought, it was a start.

Having Violet help him wasn't strictly a necessity. Curiously, she was being quite accommodating in the last day or so. She returned from her read-through yesterday buzzing with excitement that carried on until today. She _loved everyone,_ she'd said. _They're all wonderful and sweet!_ And she was leaving tomorrow, to commence filming on Monday, so that brought along with it a certain amount of nervous excitement as well.

Violet had sat with Sherlock as he scrutinised Adair's social media presence.

"How can you see all his postings?" Violet asked.

"Because I'm a friend of a friend, and his security isn't locked down too severely."

"How are you a friend of a friend?"

Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to form on his lips.

"Because I have a fake account I created a few years ago for the purpose of monitoring clients or checking up on suspects. Twenty-two year old female, profile picture some vague beach setting, and a handful of photos of holiday destinations and painted toenails."

"Are you serious?"

"It's amazing how many men in their forties won't think twice about accepting a friend request from a young woman."

"You're awful!"

"I have two hundred and fifty-three friends." Sherlock smiled broadly at Violet, however his girlfriend wasn't impressed. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I only use it for work. I don't engage with anybody."

Violet appeared to forgive him his social media stalking, and she helped him scan Adair's photos for any clues the victim had frequented Kabuki's. It was difficult to tell. Whenever the flash was used, faces would be bright and usually over-exposed; the background was rendered black and therefore showed no detail of the man's surroundings.

But the profile did reveal a lot about the young Ronny Adair. There was a marked difference in his postings and appearance during his very brief marriage and when he was newly single once more: the haircuts, the blond tints, tighter shirts, ostentatious jewellery—rings and neck chains in particular. Sherlock noted all of the changes, particularly those in the months before Adair's murder. The blond tips had been replaced by a crewcut; the outrageous shirt colours became more subdued; a neck chain appeared and disappeared multiple times; and a chunky celtic ring made a longer lasting appearance, disappearing two weeks before he died. There were many friends in Ronny's photos taken while he was out clubbing, but none featured Sebastian Moran.

"Oh, I know her," Violet said suddenly, as Sherlock scrolled past one particular photo. "She works in Kabuki's."

Sherlock instructed Violet to note the date of that particular status update. Another one for him to check out. Now if only he could gain access to the CCTV footage from those particular cameras without asking his brother for a favour. To do so would place him firmly in the red.

"Sherlock," Violet said, suddenly snuggling into him.

"Mm?" he asked, still distracted by Adair's postings.

"Will you come with me to my dad's tonight?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. It was already quite late and he couldn't see any reason they needed to visit the Brassworks so spontaneously. Sherlock thought all of Violet's belongings were now in Baker Street.

"Why?" he asked, dragging his eyes from the screen to look down at his doe-eyed girlfriend.

"Because I want to leave for the station from there. I'm sick of dodging the journalists outside, and I have to leave at 11am. They're bound to be back here by then."

Sherlock quietly considered her request. To her credit, she hadn't been annoying and dramatic and moody in the last forty-eight hours, even when she had received news this morning that she hadn't been successful in winning the part Andrea Thingy had pulled out of. She'd shrugged it off as if it was nothing.

Sherlock found this highly unusual for Violet. In fact, once again he mulled over the entire industry and Violet's commitment to it. He didn't think she was at all suited to this career. She was continually putting herself up for approval and constantly left wanting. That was what it boiled down to. This woman, who was vying so avidly for attention from the father who continually rejected her—who had no real parents to speak of—had turned to the one industry that could cruelly and remorselessly cut her down at any moment.

Violet was looking up at Sherlock, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"I've phoned my dad and he hasn't answered. I sent him a couple of messages, too. He's probably not in London so you don't have to worry about him being there."

"Yes, of course I will," Sherlock said. Accompanying Violet to the West End tonight was no hardship, he decided.

Sherlock continued working while Violet packed the last of her things. They left Baker Street just after midnight, with no journalists whatsoever outside.

Sherlock tried not to let the news of Grice Johnson's death bring him down. He found it impossible to believe that a blundering idiotic gangster like Sebastian Moran could orchestrate a murder and make it look like a suicide. The man had spent eleven years in total behind bars for various crimes. He didn't have the foresight and intelligence to plan such a thing. Ever since being given this case, Sherlock had a niggling feeling there was a more powerful figure behind Moran's recent successes.

A small seed of an idea had been planted in Sherlock's mind during the course of the day and in light of Violet appearing eager to help once more. Her step-brother's wedding was two weekends away. In Manchester. It may be the perfect opportunity to use his girlfriend and her connection to Manchester's seedy underbelly once more. It was time for Violet Hunter to meet Sebastian Moran.

-oOo-

* * *

 **A/N** : Please comment if you're still enjoying this story! I know I only have a handful of dear faithful readers now that I've split the story from Part 1, so I could really use the encouragement these days. Please review :)


	38. Use Your Mind Palace

**A/N:** I'm unashamedly and unapologetically posting a chapter that doesn't move the plot forward very much because I needed to cheer myself up this week.

* * *

 **Chapter 37 – Use Your Mind Palace!**

Sherlock didn't associate the Brassworks with pleasant memories. The first time he'd been here, he was searching for Violet after she'd walked out on him because he couldn't tell her he loved her—a minor technicality. Sherlock met Violet's father on that occasion. An odd encounter. The man was clearly a tosser. His second visit was upon his return from Manchester to find that Violet had been involved in an argument with Jake Venucci—another tosser—that had turned physical, leaving Sherlock's girlfriend battered and bruised. _Mental note: destroy Jake Venucci when the Moran case is solved._

Now here they were again, footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell, just after one o'clock on a Sunday morning, all because Violet wanted to avoid tabloid journalists who may hover on 221B's doorstep.

What horrors would await him on this occasion?

When they reached the floor of the flat, a woman appeared from the alcove that Sherlock knew to house the doorway of flat 7B—their destination. The thirty-something redhead was dressed in a scarlet cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. Immaculately groomed and peering into a makeup mirror as she walked along, she said, "Ooh, sorry love," when she had to suddenly pull up short to avoid colliding with Violet. Without another thought, the woman rounded the pair and swiftly descended the stairs.

Sherlock could tell Violet wanted to say something. As they approached the door, she checked back along the passageway, then said to Sherlock, "Did she just…" Violet indicated 7B's door with a tilt of her head.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

Violet tutted.

"So, dad must've had a date," she murmured to herself. She hesitated before the front door. "That means he's home."

Sherlock had already deduced the woman's _occupation,_ and therefore _Not a date_ was his immediate thought. He decided to keep Violet in the dark about that little deduction.

Placing Violet's suitcase on the floor beside him, he asked "Well?" Sherlock wondered what was now going through his girlfriend's mind.

"Should I knock?" she asked.

"I suppose so."

Violet reached out and rapped loudly on the wooden door. It was a few seconds before they heard the click of a lock. The door swung inwards and an arm thrust out holding a silky black thong.

"Second time this week," said a male voice that Sherlock immediately recognised as belonging to Gregory Oakes.

Violet gasped and took a step backwards. Sherlock stifled an eyeroll. This man was something else again. The door opened wider and her dad poked his head out, lowering his arm simultaneously. Greg Oakes clucked his tongue out of annoyance then immediately disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar.

Sherlock saw Violet shudder a little before she recomposed herself and followed her father inside. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock picked up Violet's suitcase and entered the flat.

Greg Oakes said to Violet, "Did you say hello to Cherry on your way in? I don't think that's her real name."

Oakes had tossed the underwear onto the stark white sofa and had positioned himself in front of a matching armchair. Sherlock noted that the man wore a dressing gown and mostly likely nothing else underneath. It was his turn to shudder.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Oakes asked without looking at the pair. He sank into the chair and plucked the remote control from the coffee table.

Sherlock glanced at Violet. He could tell she was struggling to remain composed.

"I rang you," she began, "and left you several messages and texts."

Oakes pressed a button on the remote control and the television burst into life.

"I routinely ignore your calls and texts," he said.

Violet seemed to visibly deflate at those words and the lack of eye contact from her father.

Sherlock's heart hardened and he replied on Violet's behalf, "Violet needs to stay the night. She's avoiding the paparazzi. Bedroom's this way isn't it?" He took the suitcase and swiftly left the living area for the passageway to the right.

He hoped to hear Violet following him, but the sound of the TV was abruptly muted at the same time that Violet stammered, "That was… That's… You've already met Sherlock, haven't you?"

"Why are you avoiding the paparazzi?" Sherlock heard Oakes ask.

The detective stopped just outside the door to Violet's room. He looked back along the passageway, but could only partially see Violet.

"Why don't you Google me," he heard her say. "The name's Violet Hunter."

When she came into view, Sherlock gave her a reassuring smile and waited for her to catch up.

"He works odd hours," she muttered as she preceded Sherlock into the bedroom.

"Oh, okay," Sherlock remarked, closing the door behind them both. "Does that excuse his rude behaviour?"

"No. It explains why he's awake at the moment." Violet grabbed the suitcase from Sherlock and lifted it onto the bed. "And he's a fucking arsehole. That's his excuse for his rude behaviour."

Violet opened the suitcase, but then stood back to remove her parka. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"So, I'll just… ah," he began, feeling a tad awkward, "say goodbye then?"

"What?"

"Say goodnight, and leave you to it."

The creases in Violet's brow indicated her disapproval.

"You're going to leave?"

"I'm not staying here."

Violet threw the parka onto the bed and drew up in front of Sherlock.

"You said you'd stay here with me tonight."

"I agreed to come with you. We didn't discuss staying the night."

Violet's eyes began to water. _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Sherlock thought. Was there no way to predict her needs from one day to the next?

"But I'm leaving tomorrow," she said, her voice straining with emotion. "I'll be gone for a whole week."

"Yes, I know."

Violet continued to gaze up at him, as if she was waiting for some further explanation from him.

"And…" he said, stalling. "I'm… saying… goodbye. You're only going for a week after all."

Violet's expression altered slightly. She slid her arms around Sherlock's neck and drew him in for a hug. Sherlock circled his arms around Violet's waist and lowered his head, allowing her shampoo and perfume to fill him with their usual desirable notions. But he kept himself in check so he could deliver just the one goodbye kiss.

Violet turned her face toward him. Sherlock could feel her breath warming his neck and tempting him as it fluttered over his skin. He thought now was the time to say goodbye.

The words had formed on his lips when Violet asked, "Are you sure you can't stay?" She slid her hand into the curls at his nape and lightly skimmed his lips with hers.

"Um…" was his reply. He knew what she was doing here. The needy girlfriend was replaced by the demanding _wanton_ girlfriend.

"Because I could make it worth your while if you stayed."

She brushed his lips with hers once more, then lingered a little.

"Ah…" he said, he voice becoming rough with… _what was that? Oh. Need_. He cleared his throat. It wasn't as if they hadn't done this hundreds of times before. Why was he getting all worked up now? "I can't… really… do this here."

Violet lips were now lightly feathering along his jawline.

"Why?" she murmured.

Sherlock drew back a little. Violet had barely touched him, yet her promise to him was irresistibly tempting.

"Because this is your father's place. I can't do what I want to do to you when he's here."

A tiny laugh escaped Violet.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. It feels wrong."

Violet raised her brows, incredulous.

"You want to show respect for my father by not fucking his daughter under his roof. Is that it?"

Sherlock hesitated, but that sounded like an accurate summation of what he was feeling.

"Yes."

"That man, out there? The one who pretty much ignored me after he'd just farewelled a prostitute?"

"How… did you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. You don't think she looked like a high-class escort? Cherry? I know you deduced it. She couldn't possibly be just a date. She didn't stay over to do the walk of shame in the morning, for one thing."

"The walk of…?"

"Sherlock," Violet said, her eyes sharpening with renewed intention. "We're both adults. He's a narcissistic arsehole who doesn't deserve your respect." A sly smile grew on her face before she claimed his mouth back again. Sherlock found his defences lowering and a yearning rising up instead.

He returned Violet's kiss, unhurried, allowing himself to savour the taste of her and feel the hunger behind the light flicks of her tongue. As longing gave way to arousal, Sherlock reflected on their love making sessions in the last week. Only twice, he thought, and even then, it had been tender and considered. He'd gone to bed each night with zero expectations. Violet preferred to cuddle in those days after visiting Grice Johnson. And then, gradually, cuddling became what it was designed to be: a precursor to sex, naturally.

Feeling the warmth and need in Violet's kiss reminded him of the many and varied ways he and Violet approached sex. Her enthusiasm and intensity often matched his own. How he had missed those energetic encounters!

With these thoughts flitting through his mind, he slid his lips from hers and sought the milky smooth expanse of Violet's neck. He felt her sigh with delight at his touch.

"So, that's a yes then?" she asked somewhat superfluously.

Undressing in this frame of mind was always a challenge for them both. There was the danger that Violet could ruin a perfectly good _Trevor & Vernet_ shirt in the process. And this was a new purchase, he thought—the scarlet shirt Violet had eyed when he had his pre-TELSAs fitting at the exclusive tailor in Savile Row.

Sherlock shed his jacket, without incident, and relieved Violet of her knitted top. Shoes were always discarded with a certain degree of ineloquence while trying to remain balanced yet still enthusiastically grope one's partner. But the trouble began after Violet's nimble fingers unfastened Sherlock's shirt buttons. Thankfully she didn't pull his shirt apart as she had done once in the past, but she did aggressively try to yank the shirt from his body. In her haste, she hadn't undone the buttons at Sherlock's cuffs.

In hindsight, Sherlock realised it was normally he who would remember this task. The couple of times they'd become aware of this error, Violet would invariably dissolve into a fit of laughter.

Which she did on this occasion.

Instead of assisting Sherlock with his cuffs, she decided unhooking his trousers would be the next best thing. In her eagerness to release Sherlock from the confines of his underwear she had neglected to free his arms. Sherlock was torn between enjoying Violet's libidinous ministrations and wanting to do something to her in return.

Violet nipped and sucked at his neck while her hands tended to other deeds inside Sherlock's pants. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't even band his arms around her because his shirt was off his shoulders but not yet loose enough behind his back. Eventually… that is… _eventually_ …after a couple of low moans of pleasure, he decided he ought to contribute.

He flicked his shirt back up to his shoulders then ushered Violet backwards toward the bed. She didn't seem to mind the changing of the guard. In fact, her eyes were alight with expectation. Sometimes Sherlock thought his girlfriend had more foresight about how events would pan out than he'd given her credit for.

Violet tugged him down onto the bed with her, and Sherlock stretched himself along her length. He was still completely dressed, more or less. He gave Violet no chance to make Sherlock's while worth anything, for he filled himself with her, tormenting and pleasuring her, removing her clothing items one by one where necessary. His fingers and tongue teased and stroked until she gasped out his name. It was, by far, the most successful way to stop Violet talking too much.

Suddenly Sherlock was off the bed, standing over her, his face clouded by indifference.

"Permit me to finish undressing," he said.

Violet was rosy cheeked and dishevelled when she propped herself up onto her elbows. Her chest heaved from their exertions, but her eyes were bright with arousal. He thought she'd be annoyed with the disruption to reaching her desired destination, but apparently the sight of Sherlock undoing his cuff buttons reminded her of that earlier moment of awkwardness. This brought with it a fresh round of chuckling on her part. Sherlock tutted as he slipped off his shirt properly this time. He opened the closet door as Violet shuffled toward the bedhead, fluffed out a pillow, and set her gaze upon him.

"Really?" she asked as Sherlock slipped his shirt over a hanger.

"Yes. Really."

Violet kept her eyes on Sherlock as he dropped his trousers onto the floor. She was enjoying this, he mused, upon seeing the tiny smile playing on her lips. He hadn't brought a change of clothes. What else was he going to wear upon leaving? A crumpled suit?

With deliberate slowness, Sherlock shook out his trousers, then hung them too onto a hanger. He closed the closet doors and moved toward the bed.

"You haven't finished yet," Violet said.

With a sigh that had no place in the moments before sex, Sherlock slid off his boxer trunks. He wasn't self-conscious at all; he just didn't like Violet telling him what to do.

"Are you going to hang those up, too?" she asked. It was a question not worth answering. Of course he wasn't going to hang up his underwear. Ridiculous. And there weren't any spare hangers left anyway.

It was then that Violet dropped her gaze. The only tell-tale sign of approval was the imperceptible widening of her smile.

Sherlock left his underwear on the floor as he climbed back onto the bed, and onto his girlfriend.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he hovered over her and said, "Don't you know it's rude to stare?"

Violet twined her arms and legs around Sherlock's body, pulling him closer.

"Don't you know it's rude to bring someone almost to the point of orgasm, then leaving them there while you slowly undress?"

"Is that where you were?" he asked, feigning innocence. "The point of orgasm? I had no idea…"

Violet curled her fingers into Sherlock's hair. She tilted her chin in anticipation of Sherlock's kiss, but he deliberately held back.

Rearranging himself, he said, "I wonder if it's possible to bring you back again?" He locked his eyes on Violet's as he slowly slid into her.

She emitted a pleasurable gasp causing Sherlock to form a tiny smile of satisfaction on his lips. He deliberately kept to a slow rhythm that Violet initially matched underneath him.

But he was also doing himself a disservice. Violet had left him hopelessly aroused even before he had removed his clothing. Now that they were flesh to flesh, he had to force himself to maintain some sort of control. Heat shimmered over his skin and his heart rate decided that a nice trot would get things moving a bit. Violet's tiny murmurings of pleasure didn't help with his composure, and her hands and arching hips were urging him along the same lines. He didn't want to devour and plunder. He wanted this to last; it would be a week until the next time. Despite his earlier remark, that was indeed a long time between cuddles, now that cuddling had resumed offering its original programme content.

Sherlock just as deftly slid out of Violet. Using his skilful and clever fingers and tongue instead, he gave his penis a stay of execution. And now to bring Violet to the point of no return.

Violet must have thought otherwise, for she pushed Sherlock from her, rolling him onto his back. Before he could utter a sound in protest, she had already straddled him. His heart rate began a delightful canter. There was nothing sweet and soft about Violet Hunter when there was something she wanted. And that something was him. Inside her. _Now_.

Self-control had all but abandoned him and his heart rate broke into a gallop. Violet was dragging him to the edge with her. It would be her fault if he went over too soon.

 _Oh!_ he thought. _Use my Mind Palace!_ He could carefully navigate its corridors, perhaps do some cleaning up, or filing, or… f-fucking… _Oh, God, Violet._

 _No! No,_ he thought more calmly, resuming his walk along pristine corridors. _The windows could do with a spot of cleaning, though. Are they cobwebs?_

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Violet had stopped fucking him.

"No," she said. "You're not hiding out in your Mind Palace again. It's late. I want us to finish so I can go to sleep."

She leant down and kissed him out of his hideaway. He decided to play along if that was what she wanted. But how angry was Violet now? Angry sex didn't work for him. He used his tongue to test the waters of Violetness. She reciprocated! And she had resumed her earlier rhythm, but it was lacking in conviction.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Violet and tilted them both until she relented and allowed Sherlock to roll on top of her. Dialling down the pitch of his baritone to a climax-inducing level, he said, directly into her ear, "And you shall finish in style, if that's what you desire."

A gasp, ragged breathing, fingernails raking his back. Well, two out of three.

He drove her until all her exhales formed his name.

Or the occasional swear word.

Or some annoying deity.

But mostly his name, which was music to his ears.

Violet's undoing became his own, and he soon joined her in mindless exaltations.

As they lay together, side by side, with limp arms loosely thrown over one another, Sherlock asked Violet, "How did you know I was inside my Mind Palace?"

Violet blinked tired eyes and replied, "Because you were frowning."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and accommodated Violet when she shuffled in closer. She kissed the underside of his jaw and sighed out an "I love you."

She didn't look up at him expectantly for his response, but he gave it anyway, and punctuated his utterance with a kiss on the top of Violet's head.

"I'll be leaving at dawn," he said. Violet murmured something incoherent in reply. "But I won't wake you," he added.

"Okay," she replied sleepily. "I'll see you next Friday then."

Violet's body grew heavy in his arms and Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair a couple of times before he, too, grew sleepy.

Several hours later, his body clock alerted him to the fact that it was the break of dawn. Sherlock disentangled himself from Violet's embrace and quietly dressed. He didn't wake her to say goodbye, but merely kissed her on the forehead.

Stealthily navigating through the flat, Sherlock let himself out onto the balcony that overlooked the central courtyard. He found what he was looking for: a half-full cigarette packet. He knew the moment he met Gregory Oakes that the man was a smoker. _Not my usual brand_ , Sherlock observed. Oakes smoked low-tar, like that poncy git Sherlock had for a brother. Still, the detective helped himself to one, lit it with the lighter that also sat on the outdoor table and inhaled deeply.

He walked through the flat to the front door and quickly checked his reflection in the mirror beside the door—dishevelled and in need of a shave. There were bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and his jacket was creased. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair to fluff it out a bit, then left as quietly as he could.

Once he reached the ground floor and had exited the building, he allowed himself another drag. He decided to navigate through the city on foot for the twenty minutes or so to Baker Street rather than search for a cab at this early hour.

As he strode the length of Stanhope Place to Seymour Street, he remembered there was something he wanted to research. Sherlock retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and swiftly navigated to Google using one hand while he continued to smoke with the other.

 _Ah, yes_ , he remembered. _Just what exactly_ is _'the walk of shame_ '?

-oOo-

* * *

 **A/N** : I hope this chapter provided light entertainment for you. Review?


	39. I'm Trying to Recruit You

**Chapter 38 – I'm Trying to Recruit You**

 _First time on a horse, side-saddle, in a corset! —V x_

A half-smile formed on Sherlock's lips as he regarded the photo Violet had sent him from the set of _Catherine Hilderness_. The ache in his heart he'd been nursing for the last couple of days grew once more. Not because he missed her—he did, sort of—but more so for the information he'd found out when visiting Copper Beeches earlier in the week, and information he must keep hidden from Violet at all costs.

Sherlock had decided that there were a few things he could tend to while Violet was away filming; one of them was to visit the independent, privately-run mental health facility where Violet's mother, Therese Hunter, had spent the last few years of her life.

Comments such as _denies having a child,_ and, _doesn't acknowledge she has a daughter,_ kept swimming through his mind as a result of the copious amount of paperwork the facility permitted him to read in relation to Therese Hunter as an inpatient.

The detective also visited a former psychiatric nurse who had spent the most time with Therese Hunter before her own retirement. Sherlock could detect the woman's fondness for Violet's mother.

" _She kept organising little parties and celebrations,_ " Ms Parks said. " _The life and soul of her group._ " Except when she wasn't, Sherlock learnt very quickly. Therese Hunter's depression could last from days to months. Then there were the isolated incidents that, over the years, formed a very distinct pattern, at least according to Ms Parks.

" _Whenever there was a chance her status was about to be reassessed, there would be an incident._ "

Violet's mother had trashed another resident's room on one occasion, and smashed a television set on another. Her most violent actions had been the stabbing of a pen into the back of a female resident's hand and three suicide attempts. Parks reasoned that Therese Hunter simply panicked at the prospect of leaving the facility and wanted to somehow prove she belonged there.

Sherlock initially thought Therese had become lost in the system, but had it actually been a case of her knowing how to work the system to ensure she stayed where she was comfortable?

Sherlock asked if Therese had ever received visitors.

" _Her mother at Christmas time for the first three years before she passed away. After that, nobody._ "

Sherlock's fists clenched in his lap. Sherlock knew that Violet's grandmother had passed away when Violet was in her teens, not three years after Therese had been sectioned. The only conclusion he could draw was that Therese Hunter's own mother simply stopped visiting.

Her daughter, Violet, could have visited had she known, he thought. But Therese never asked about her daughter either.

" _She just didn't seem to recognise her from the photos that came with her. I don't know,_ Ms Parks lamented. " _She'd shake her head and say she didn't know her. And I kept thinking, that poor little girl, growing up without her mother. I did wonder if she turned out all right, little Lettie Adler._ "

Sherlock was momentarily thrown at hearing Violet referred to by those names, but outwardly he remained composed.

Upon clearing his throat, he replied, " _I hear she's doing quite well for herself._ "

" _But is she happy?_ "

Sherlock internally smiled at that question. Only the night before, Violet demanded they Skype before she went to bed, so she'd have _happy dreams._ He scoffed at the time, thinking Violet quite pathetic. But at the question posed by the former Copper Beeches nurse, he conjured up the image of his girlfriend, with dishevelled hair and sleep-laden eyelids, curled up underneath the blankets in her hotel room, desperately trying to stay awake long enough to tell Sherlock all the exciting things that had happened during the shoot that day.

" _Yes,_ " he replied. " _I believe she is._ "

-o-

Violet had barely arrived through the door to the living room before Sherlock started quizzing her about her step-brother's wedding next weekend. She puzzled over his interest.

"And how long is considered polite before we can leave the reception?" he asked.

Violet flicked the switch on the kettle before turning back to Sherlock. Violet was disappointed he didn't spend longer hugging her upon her arrival before launching into his interrogation.

"It's traditional to wait until the bride and groom leave."

"And when will they leave?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock drew his brow down in thought.

"Don't worry," Violet said laughingly. "We can always pretend you have a headache if you want to leave early. Some guests discreetly leave before the happy couple do. Usually the elderly. It's best not to make a fuss about it."

"It's not for me; it's for you."

"Me?"

Sherlock's expression grew dark, his eyes hooded, causing Violet's heart to stutter.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Let's sit down," Sherlock said, gesturing toward the living room.

"Do you think I'll need a cup of tea as well?"

 _Or you could just tell me right now,_ Violet thought, after Sherlock had given her a resigned nod. She turned back to the tea things and finished preparing their evening cuppa while Sherlock slowly paced across rug.

She brought the tea tray into the living room and set it on the coffee table.

"Shall I pour?" she asked, managing to keep her voice light and unaffected, even though a sense of dread rippled through her.

"Best let it steep for a while," Sherlock replied, sinking down onto the sofa beside her.

 _And he's being unusually accommodating,_ Violet thought.

"Violet," he began, reaching out and taking her hand in his. Her heart began a dull throb in her chest at the gesture. "Please don't get upset or hysterical."

"What?"

"Or, you know…You do get a little… dramatic when you hear bad news."

Violet scowled at her boyfriend to let him know she wasn't impressed with his choice of words. Perhaps he knew her particularly well, but she had been improving, hadn't she? She didn't even tell Sherlock about the news she'd received earlier in the week in between shooting her scenes.

Violet was itching to find out about her chances at securing a role on the _Anuket's Children_ sequel, _The Rise of the Five,_ having heard nothing from her agent _._ She knew casting for these projects took some time, but she wanted perhaps a hint that she was being considered, so she phoned the agency.

Polly Stoper's assistant, Lucinda Barnicot, informed Violet that the role was down to two candidates: Violet and one other, but that it was all hush-hush and Violet shouldn't repeat this to anybody. Violet had the distinct impression that Barnicot was imparting information she had no business sharing herself.

Violet immediately phoned her friend Spencer Munro to get him to relay the news to his boyfriend, Timothy Killaney. Violet was hoping that Killaney, who had already starred in the original _Anuket's Children,_ and whose character was set to make a reappearance in the sequel, would have an insider's take on the casting. Instead, Spence blurted out that, " _Yes, we'd heard it was between you and Andrea._ "

Violet kept her shock to herself after their conversation continued onto other trivial matters.

 _Andrea Fabenaski,_ she thought darkly later. _So that's why she withdrew from that other role._ Violet continued the day with alternating thoughts about the actress who had achieved minor success on the British small screen.

Andrea Fabenaski had appeared on a long-running spy show as a double agent. _She even looks cool running around and fighting people,_ Violet thought sullenly, reflecting on her own efforts recorded on her audition reel. _And she can actually act._ Violet couldn't find any fault with Andrea; she respected her in a professional sense.

Violet should've been thinking about her upcoming scenes, so for the rest of the shoot in Wiltshire, she successfully put the _Rise of the Five_ role out of her mind. She concluded she wouldn't get the part over Andrea Fabenaski, therefore it was best not to dwell on it.

So, whatever Sherlock was about to tell her, she could remain calm about it, couldn't she?

To her boyfriend, she said, "Sherlock, just spit it out."

"Grice Johnson's dead."

Not what she was expecting. Her stomach dropped several inches.

Sherlock was looking at her, his eyes slightly wider in anticipation of her reaction. Violet felt her chest grow tighter and her mouth run dry.

Sherlock filled in the ensuing silence for her.

"Lestrade once advised me not to bring you along on cases because you're far too sensitive, and in some respects, he's right. This is a case I'm working on and I can't have you falling apart on me while I'm planning our next move. Yes, _our_ next move, because I need you to do something next weekend. You've always asked to help me on cases, so this is your chance. You can have a meltdown about Grice Johnson's death later. You're perfectly placed—"

"Sherlock. Stop."

He did, his mouth still agape until he snapped it shut.

"I just need a moment," Violet said.

"See, this is exactly what I'm talk—"

"I'm _not_ having a meltdown."

"And we have work to—"

"Shut up!"

Violet removed her hand from Sherlock's then slid forward. She regained her composure and began pouring tea for them both. Sherlock was drumming his fingers on his knee, a gesture Violet found extremely annoying. He was still trying to get her to hurry along without saying anything!

"I'll be shooting in Scotland next week," she said, while she heaped sugar into their cups. "I'll find a wedding present up there. Will you wear the suit you wore to the TELSAs?"

There was a pause before Sherlock responded.

"No."

"What will you wear then?"

Violet managed to meet Sherlock's gaze when she handed him his cup of tea. She would not falter. She would remain composed. They were having a cup of tea and they were being quite civilised.

"I'll get another one made," Sherlock advised her before blowing across his tea and taking a sip.

She had to hand it to him. He was managing to keep the conversation to a topic she had chosen. However, she objected to his casual attitude about bespoke clothing once more.

"You can't keep doing that," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Getting _Trevor & Vernet_ to make you a suit with only one week's notice."

Sherlock gave a light shrug.

"Victor Trevor owes me a great deal, and besides," he began, leaning forward and placing his cup down. "I'm a silent partner in the business, so I obviously have to come away with some perks."

"What?"

A tiny smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth and his eyes twinkled.

"I am the _Vernet_ in _Trevor & Vernet._"

Violet frowned. This didn't make any sense.

But Sherlock went on. "Altamont Vernet. Altamont is my maternal grandfather's middle name and Vernet is my maternal grandmother's maiden name."

He beamed at her, looking quite satisfied with the bombshell he'd dropped on Violet. He'd kept this a secret, even during the time she was freaking out about the possibility that his tuxedo wouldn't be ready in time for the TELSAs.

Violet abruptly placed her tea cup down. The tea sloshed a little up the sides of the cup.

"You're the _secret partner_ of an exclusive Savile Row tailor and _you didn't tell me!_ "

Sherlock's smile faltered, as well it should. Violet stood up, the blood now rushing through her veins.

"You _kept this from me?_ " she yelled. " _How could you! You're a horrible man!_ " Her voice caught in her throat and she didn't stay long enough to see Sherlock's reaction. Violet side-stepped the coffee table, almost stumbling in her bid to escape the living room.

She was two steps from the landing outside her room when the surge of adrenaline that had enabled her to sprint upstairs appeared to abate. She was left with a thumping heart and a dizzy head and she hadn't noticed Sherlock ascending the stairs behind her until his arms caught her.

Violet struggled in his embrace, telling herself she was still furious with him. But she knew, in her heart, her storming out had nothing to do with his secret partnership.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding her firmly. "I didn't want to tell you before you set off for Wiltshire."

That didn't make any sense.

"What?" she asked, turning to face him when Sherlock loosened his hold.

"Grice Johnson," he said.

Of course Sherlock had deduced the reason behind her outburst, and it wasn't because of the tailor.

"I'm not upset."

The smile playing on Sherlock's lips told her he didn't believe her assertion.

"Weren't we having tea?" she asked.

"Don't think for one second that we're responsible. Sebastian Moran—"

"I know."

She gave Sherlock a wan smile. She was standing on the step above his, making it easier for Sherlock to bow his head, touching his forehead to hers.

"If we get Moran," he said, speaking softly, "then we get Grice's killer."

At the words _Grice's killer,_ Violet shivered. Someone they'd just interacted with had been murdered _because_ they'd interacted with him.

"Don't dwell on it right now," Sherlock said, as if he knew her thought processes. Of course he knew her thought processes. "We have to keep moving forward, and I have a plan."

Violet released an unsteady breath and blinked back tears.

It all seemed far too much work, this murder-solving business. It was a good thing she had a day job. But _someone had died!_ Her rapist. The man she'd assaulted just recently.

The air surrounding Violet became stifling. It was too thick to enter her windpipe and her breath came out in short bursts.

"Violet," Sherlock said.

"No, I'm…" _Fine,_ she wanted to say, but she didn't feel at all fine.

"Here," he said, taking her hands and folding them over her belly. "Breathe using your diaphragm… like you do during those ridiculous-sounding vocal exercises you learnt about."

Violet wanted to laugh. Sherlock was trying to be funny and sarcastic just to cheer her up. He waited with her in silence while she filled her lungs with oxygen and exhaled through her mouth.

"You can't escape the situation that's causing your panic attack," he said.

"I'm not—"

"Shh! So, let's talk about it. You must have questions by now. I barely gave you any details."

Violet breathed deeply with Sherlock's hand covering hers. It was very comforting, she realised. She could do this.

"H-how did he die?"

"He drowned in the Thames."

Violet inhaled sharply.

"Breathe," Sherlock whispered. "And slowly count, if it helps."

"I can't count and think at the same time."

A tiny smile formed on Sherlock's lips. Violet adored the way he was looking at her in this moment; it was so encouraging, as if he had complete faith in her. His expression no longer reflected impatience about her emotional state.

Violet tore her gaze away from him, so she could think about what she was supposed to ask him.

"Was there evidence of foul play?"

Sherlock's smile broadened as if he was pleased with her question.

"It was made to look like suicide."

"And what does Scotland Yard think?"

"It was suicide."

"But that's not what you think."

Sherlock slowly shook his head. He gave Violet's hand a gentle squeeze then lightly skimmed his thumb over her wrist.

"And we don't want Scotland Yard to think anything other than suicide," he said firmly.

Violet thought about Sherlock's statement for a moment and she immediately understood the meaning behind it. If the Met suspected foul play, they may question those close to Grice and uncover any encounters he may have had in the days leading up to his death.

"I have a motive," Violet said, "and a history of violence against him."

"Exactly."

Violet was grateful Sherlock remained quiet for a few seconds while she got her breathing under control and her thoughts in order.

She was dating Sherlock Holmes. _Sherlock Holmes_ , whose cleverness and adventurous lifestyle had drawn Violet to him in the first place; he was the man she now loved and stood by when up against the likes of Sebastian Moran and—dare she think it—Jake Venucci. Violet immediately dismissed her pangs of regret there. _Bastard,_ she thought of Jake. _He's chosen his life; I've chosen mine._

Violet had previously agreed to help Sherlock on this case. It wasn't the case of the missing silver teaspoon, lost by some kindly old lady. This was real and dangerous, and solving this case mattered to the wider world.

"What's the plan?" she asked eventually.

Violet could sense Sherlock's barely-suppressed excitement.

"I believe we were about to have tea?"

-oOo-


	40. Are You Feeling Exposed?

**C** **hapter 39 – Are You Feeling Exposed?**

Sherlock sat morosely in his armchair. The weekend approached, and he would see Violet on Friday evening—less than twenty-four hours away.

Last weekend was particularly thrilling: the planning of Violet's encounter with Moran this Saturday night after her step-brother's wedding. Sherlock had told her, " _You're the only one who can do this. It has to be you and nobody else._ "

Violet's enthusiasm, once again, surprised him. He only felt a tiny bit guilty about guiding Violet's thought processes, allowing her to think she had come up with a particular idea. It was all about the phone numbers, he told her. Secret phone numbers, owned by criminals. The ones used for nefarious purposes.

Violet's eyes had shone with a bright enthusiasm she usually reserved for trivial things. This, in itself, sent Sherlock's libido soaring. His girlfriend was as driven and excited about the prospect of carrying out their plans as he was. The idea of confronting danger, of plotting the downfall of an organised crime figure who had only recently begun eluding the authorities, made an energetic and creative bedfellow out of Violet—more so than usual. He locked all the doors to prevent the landlady from walking in on them. May have been a bit awkward otherwise.

But then Violet had packed her bag and caught the next train _to Scotland_ in the early afternoon on Sunday. Sherlock was shocked into a deep depression. Wasn't this life exciting enough for her? The World's Only Consulting Detective expected the actress to announce her resignation from that moronic entertainment industry because sharing his life was a lot more fun! How had she not made that decision?

Faced with a mere forty-eight hours until they could put their plans in motion, Sherlock made a quick call to John Watson to confirm his friend's involvement. He then retrieved his laptop from beside the armchair and decided to wile away the hours by reading new cases and pointing out holes in potential clients' stories. His peace and solitude was soon disrupted by the landlady delivering a tray full of cold meat and other unappealing morsels.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm bringing you a late supper. You hardly ate any lunch—"

"I never eat _lunch._ "

"—and Violet said to make sure you're well-fed."

Sherlock scowled at the contents of the plate, then looked on in horror as Mrs Hudson eagerly took to the seat across from him.

"How's she doing then?" she asked, tapping her knees excitedly.

"How…? With what?"

"The filming! _Catherine Hilderness_! It was one of my favourite books growing up. I read it over and over."

"You'd need to," Sherlock muttered.

"And then there was that black and white movie they made in the fifties. That's all we had to watch of the classics back then. It was filmed in a studio in Hollywood…"

Sherlock could see that he could quite possibly end up sucked into the vortex that was his landlady's story-telling, and his witless babble filter had failed to kick in. He discarded the laptop and stood up, fastening his jacket button. Dead bodies in a mortuary suddenly seemed appealing right now.

"…None of this gadding about in the country-side up North," Mrs Hudson went on.

Sherlock crossed the rug and retrieved his coat from behind the front door.

"Where are you off to this late?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Out."

His landlady rose from her seat, deep furrows appearing in her brow as Sherlock drew on his coat.

"You're not doing your Thursday night thing again are you?"

Sherlock paused mid collar-pop. He met Mrs Hudson's stern gaze with his own of incredulity.

"I'm not sure if you noticed," he began, "but I'm in a relationship with that actress who's currently gadding about in the country-side up North."

"Oh, but what do you know about relationships. You've never had girlfriends, or even boyfriends for that matter."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but words momentarily eluded him. Did he really appear to be such an ignorant arsehole when it came to relationships that his landlady and sometime housekeeper thought him incapable of remaining faithful to Violet?

"I'm…" he eventually managed, "… pretty sure infidelity is on the list of things to avoid when you're in a relationship."

"Well knowing and doing are two entirely different things. Frank and I…"

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes dramatically toward the ceiling as Mrs H advised him that reciting their wedding vows did nothing to stop her husband cheating on her.

Sherlock tutted and replied, "Since the threat of lethal injection didn't dissuade the man from committing a double murder, I'm pretty sure words in front of an altar weren't going to carry any weight with Frank Hudson."

The detective checked his pockets as he turned toward the doorway, hoping his landlady would come to her senses or at least stop speaking.

"You may know not to pick up loose women," she said, not noticing Sherlock grimace at her word choice, "but all those females on the internet may still throw themselves at you. They could turn the head of any man if there are enough of them carrying cocktails, with their suntans and bikinis…"

Sherlock scoffed and quipped, "And where would you find a bevy of suntanned, bikini-clad women in Lond—" He stopped and slowly turned back to Mrs Hudson. "What did you say?"

"They could turn the head of any man—"

"No, not that. About the females who'll throw themselves at me."

"Sherlock Holmes," she said, her hands going to her hips in preparation for a scolding. "If you're going to look for—"

"Females on the internet," he said, recalling Mrs Hudson's words himself. "What females on the internet?"

Mrs Hudson threw her hands into the air resignedly. "Look, whatever you're going to do behind closed doors in front of your computer—"

" _Mrs Hudson!_ " he snapped, finally reaching the end of his tether. " _What females on the internet?_ "

His landlady gave him a pitying look.

"The ones contributing to your website," she said haughtily.

"My…?"

"Well, it sounds like your website."

"What's it called?"

"I don't remember. Mrs Turner says—"

"Leave."

Sherlock waved an irate hand at his landlady and brushed past her, shedding his coat in one fluid movement.

"I hope you're not going to—"

" _Get out!_ " he commanded her without turning around.

Sherlock grabbed his laptop and sank into his armchair as Mrs Hudson made for the stairs, muttering to herself about young people mucking about on the internet these days.

His heart racing, Sherlock did something he hadn't done in an age. He googled himself.

And there it was, at the end of the page of search results: _Sherlock Holmes and the Science of Seduction._

"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said wearily. He hesitated for a couple of seconds before clicking through to the website.

The site's sub-heading stated:

 _A forum dedicated to telling us your one-night stands with Sherlock Holmes and all his aliases._

The discussion forum was decorated with a top banner containing a montage of photos of Sherlock taken at the TELSAs, and other ones when he and Violet sometimes ventured out for coffee or takeaway food, although Violet's image had been cropped out of each picture. Sherlock scanned the page that listed the topics under discussion.

 **Welcome to the No Face Like Holmes Forum** , started by Admin  
 _If you're new here, say hi! Read this before posting!_

 **Holmes is Where the Heart Is** , started by Admin  
 _Post your Sherlock Holmes conquests here! List his aliases and the name of the nightclub, then reveal all! The more detailed, the better!_

Sherlock reluctantly clicked on the _Holmes is Where the Heart Is_ discussion. His face hardened as his eyes ran down the list of threads:

 **Paul at The Stand** , started by _msmith_

 **Callum at Roches** , started by _rosie_

 **James at Kabuki's** , started by _tijana-b_

 **Michael at The Rocks** , started by _symphony_

 **Lachlan at Hurlstone** , started by _j_ _ay_ _hawk_

 **John at Bulldozers** , started by _sherlocked_

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to say something to the empty room. He clamped it shut again then clicked on one of the postings at random.

His eyes grew wider as he scanned the text. Sherlock was no prude by any standards but this… rubbish… that was written specifically _about him_ made his skin crawl. How much truth was in the actual event described, Sherlock couldn't recall, although the mannerisms, the dialogue, and the… act… could well have been him, playing a character.

Sherlock quickly closed the window and the lid of his laptop. Annoyingly, he found his cheeks flushed and his heart-rate slightly elevated.

Why should this bother him? He usually cared little for the things people wrote about him in the media, online or otherwise. Was it because he was now in a relationship? Did he care what Violet thought, when she already knew about his past?

 _Violet!_ he thought in a mild panic. Didn't her friend Mandi frequently check up on anything written about Violet online?

Sherlock swiftly opened his computer once more, but this time he googled _Violet Hunter._ With some relief, he found that the _Science of Seduction_ website wasn't listed in the search results, therefore the site didn't mention her at all, at least, not in any searchable way.

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket. His thumb hovered over Violet's number. Should he ring her? She would've finished filming for the day and may be back at her hotel. But what would he say to her? Would he tell her all about the website, but warn her to stay away? That would be like waving free theatre tickets at her to some stupid, pointless, self-absorbed play she'd want to see. Knowing Violet, of course she'd check it out. How eager had she been to hear all about his Thursday night activities on the night they'd first snogged? She'd end the call immediately to have a look. And then, much later, she'd _quiz him about it!_

This would not do. Sherlock would have to take drastic measures. This would be another thing to keep from his girlfriend.

With a twinge in his gut for what he was about to do, Sherlock closed Violet's contact screen. Wearily, he brought up another contact and pressed _Call._

The sigh he heard in the receiver told Sherlock that was the only greeting he was going to get. In response, he launched into his request.

"There's a website. Dedicated to me. Can you kill it?"

There was a moment of silence that Sherlock knew gave ample time for his brother to roll his eyes.

"And what, dear brother, have you been up to now?"

"I'm thinking Denial of Service attack; something like that."

Sherlock could hear Mycroft tapping away. Then came a tut. He'd obviously found the site.

"Your Thursday night dalliances, I take it? Ms Hunter not impressed?"

"She finds it amusing," Sherlock lied. "Can you kill it? A cursory glance at the source code tells me it hasn't been active for very long." _And there would be a lot more names and stories than that if it had,_ he thought and did not voice. To his brother, he said, "Get it deleted or assassinate the administrator or something."

The line was filled with silence once more. And the longer it became, the more Sherlock knew his brother was calculating.

"I'll see what I can do."

The call ended, and Sherlock _knew_ what the silence had meant.

 _You owe me. Little brother._

-o-

Violet's high for reaching her last day of filming, and the subsequent lunch in celebration, had well and truly worn off as she packed the last of her belongings. Her cab was arriving in ten minutes to take her to the station, from where she'd catch the next train to Manchester. She was meeting Sherlock there rather than travelling all the way back to London only to have to head north again. She hoped they would spend a romantic Friday night together, dining in one of Manchester's finest restaurants before she steeled herself for the day after and what the evening would bring.

She knew there was a danger of crashing, that the comedown from a performance high was yet to hit, despite having to attend the studio in London for her ADR over a few days next week. But unemployment also loomed, for she hadn't received news about her potential role in _The Rise of the Five_ , and in all likelihood, the role would go to the more experienced Andrea Fabenaski. Nor had her agent received an offer on Violet's behalf to read for another part in any other production.

 _Early days yet,_ Violet tried to tell herself, in between thinking she was the worst actor in the UK. It was so hard not to think she was somebody special, especially after two weeks of being directed by Damian Oakeshott and being treated like royalty on set. It was quite a different experience to the studio shooting when she worked on the TV soap; she had been one of many, and even then, she was merely a guest star.

 _Some other actors,_ Violet had suggested to herself in a particularly low moment, _had their contracts extended because they'd made their character such a hit with audiences. But not me. I obviously suck._ Of course, Christa Barlow wasn't particularly likeable, a sensible part of Violet had reasoned, so why would the producers extend her stay?

She just had to bide her time. In a few months, after _Catherine Hilderness_ had hit the small screen, there may be a renewed interest in the product that was Violet Hunter.

 _Or I'll fade into obscurity._

What she was _supposed_ to be doing to take advantage of her "in-between times" was strengthening her voice in preparation for vocal work—practicing by bringing short stories to life, analysing characters, emulating accents, and improving her narrative stamina.

She had _plenty_ to be getting on with, and she should really put doubts about her career out of her mind.

There was something she had to get on with, though—a phone call she really had to make before leaving Scotland—that she was quite obviously putting off.

Violet looked down at her suitcase, where she had packed and repacked her belongings, and she sighed. Before thinking any more about it, Violet picked up her phone. She navigated to her list of messages and the last one she assumed was from Jake, offering congratulations for her TELSA award. She held a finger on the number until the _Call_ option appeared. Inhaling deeply, she dialled the number.

Violet tried to imagine Jake's voice answering, but what she received was a message telling her the phone was switched off. Violet thought there was a chance Jake had changed his number again, and she didn't want to risk leaving a message that he'd never receive.

Her tell-tale pounding heart almost expected to hear a recording of, _You are dialling a number that will result in your ultimate betrayal. Please check your motivation before calling again._

How she wished she didn't have to do this! But she had decided it was the right thing to do. But yes. It was a betrayal of trust.

Violet swiftly dialled Danny's number. At least her friend, and one time lover, never changed his phone number.

"Oh. Eh, Vi," he said after only two rings.

Violet was immediately breathless. She realised she hadn't exhaled.

"Hiya, Danny."

"What's up?"

"It's quite urgent, but I need Jake's number. Do you have it?"

"Ah… well…"

Violet assumed this might be the case. She could have used Jake's official business number, but he rarely answered it personally, and Violet didn't fancy leaving her name with some lackey who was too scared to approach the big man himself. Then there was his home phone number that Violet once wrote down, and had threatened Jake with ringing it on several occasions when she was drunk and he had to go home to his wife.

"Could you tell him I rang then?" she went on, relieving Danny of having to tell her he really couldn't give out Jake's new private number. "It's really urgent."

"Nothing I can help with?"

"No," she said hurriedly. Her voice tremored a little when she added, "But it's… important. Thanks, Danny."

She quickly ended the call before Dan could get another word in. And now to play the waiting game, and pray that Jake phoned her before she left Scotland. It had to be _before_ she left Scotland.

In the past, Jake would return her calls within one minute or one week. It varied that much, depending on their relationship status at the time. He was either playing the hero and phoning her back immediately when he sensed trouble in her relationship with Nick, or he'd play the casual, occasional friend, if she needed somewhere to stay in Manchester (when she was thinking of doing something silly and unimportant like auditioning for a part there).

How would he respond this time, now that she was in the unique position of dating a man who was an enemy of the person who seemed to _own_ Jake Venucci? How did he view their relationship after he'd been used to deliver a message to Sherlock Holmes to "back off" via his ex-girlfriend? Had she broken his nose after her backward headbutt in that elegant living room in Belgravia? Jake usually harboured a particular fondness for Violet after their fights became physical. Since he'd sent a congratulatory text message after the TELSAs, he still obviously viewed her in a favourable light.

Violet zipped up her bag and swung it to the floor. She grabbed her coat, draped it over one arm and took one more look around the hotel room for forgotten items. It was time. She had to leave. She was seeing Sherlock Holmes in less than four hours, but this conversation had to happen before then. Perhaps she should've phoned earlier in the week, but she really thought it best if she left it til the last minute. That was her preferred option.

Violet opened the hotel room door and stepped into the passageway. She stuck out a foot to prevent the door from closing until she confirmed that she did have the key-card in her hand. Satisfied that she wasn't completely forgetful, she let the door swing itself shut.

Her phone rang.

 _Good fucking timing_ , was her immediate thought, before her heart began hammering in her chest. She fished the phone out of her jacket pocket and glanced at the screen. It wasn't a caller she had stored in her contacts, but the number did display prominently on the screen. She couldn't just stare at it; she had to answer it and speak to him.

Her throat tightened, and she welcomed the sensation.

"Hello."

"Vi."

At the sound of his voice, tears sprang to her eyes. _You have to do this. It's the right thing to do._

"Jake." Her voice came out as a half-whisper.

Jake didn't say anything in response, he merely waited for her. She had instigated this conversation after all.

"I-I need to see you."

"What's up?"

He was all business. Was he testing her?

"I've just finished filming… in Scotland, and I…" There was a tremble in her voice that Violet did nothing to eliminate. "… Could you…" She paused, waiting for him to cut in with either a reassuring or encouraging remark, but he didn't. The rest of the words tumbled out before she lost her nerve. "Sherlock won't be in London tomorrow night, so I have to see you then. 11pm. Please be discreet. Ring me first. I have to go."

She ended the call, barely noticing that her jacket had slipped from her arm. Violet swallowed hard and sought to catch her breath. Finally, she stooped to retrieve the jacket, then grabbed the handle of her suitcase and began pulling it along behind her as she made her way to the lift.

It was done.

This was definitely an act of betrayal.

-oOo-


	41. Weddings, Not Really My Thing

**Chapter 40 – Weddings, Not Really My Thing**

Mary Morstan wanted in on the dangerous mission, which is why she'd enthusiastically agreed to accompany John and Sherlock to Manchester in the first place. John's fiancée wasn't content to sit in a café and 'baby-sit Sherlock' tomorrow night as John had suggested her role be.

"He's a grown man!" she'd argued.

"Yes," John said, "but he's putting his girlfriend into a dangerous situation, and he'll ruin everything if he goes charging in."

He knew Mary was fully aware of this, but she would prefer John babysit Sherlock while she accompanied Violet to the nightclub. John hinted that he was the most suitable person for the job because at least he looked like he could be Violet's bodyguard.

" _You?_ " Mary responded.

"Well, yeah," John replied, taking immediate offence. "That's more of a plausible scenario than Violet going clubbing with... with..." Despite Mary's raised eyebrow, John felt he had to struggle through to the end of his sentence. "...you."

After the heated exchange that ensued, John cleared his throat and attempted a different approach. "When you look at the group of friends Violet's usually photographed with... you're... you're... far too intelligent... and sensible."

"Sensible?"

"Look, Mary. I'd pick you in a heartbeat, but this is Sherlock's plan, and he's very particular about it."

Sherlock's restless pacing in the hotel room that evening was enough to do John's head in. So the doctor offered to meet Violet at Manchester Piccadilly station since they were keeping Sherlock Holmes's visibility in Manchester to a minimum.

"You didn't have to come and fetch me," Violet told the couple after their greetings were out of the way. "I used to live in Manchester. I know my way around."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock was behaving like a big baby," John said grimly. "We had to escape." He gestured toward Violet's suitcase, then took it from her when she relinquished it.

"I understand," Violet replied with a wry smile. "Thanks for coming."

Mary deftly steered the conversation around to Violet's stint in Scotland. John dropped back, allowing the pair to trawl through Violet's touristy pictures and behind the scenes photos she'd snapped on her phone during filming as they slowly walked toward the station exit.

As usual, John was slightly apprehensive about Sherlock's plan. He wasn't sure the Consulting Detective actually had one, short of instructing Violet to enter Kabuki's nightclub and have a chat to Sebastian Moran.

John's instructions were to hang back, quietly observe, and only act if it looked like Violet was being taken by force somewhere else. After the Kabuki's in London _Access Denied_ embarrassment, John knew that Sherlock couldn't accompany Violet to the club's namesake in Manchester.

But this didn't sound like much of a plan for retrieving evidence that Sebastian Moran was behind three murders, unless there was something Sherlock wasn't telling him. John wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.

-o-

Violet was grateful for the distraction provided by John and Mary, for she'd been feeling apprehensive throughout her entire train journey. Ordinarily, attending a wedding with Sherlock would've been her main worry and concern, but unfortunately (or was that _fortunately?_ ) her step-brother's wedding had faded into the background.

By the time they'd exited the lift and were striding along the corridor toward her and Sherlock's hotel room, Violet had finished showing Mary the photos from her trip and they were deep in conversation about the fact that Timothy Killaney was actually gay. She insisted that they don't tell anybody. Mary was a huge Timothy Killaney fan so John had met Violet's news with a quiet chuckle to himself.

John pulled up in front of number 403 and knocked as Violet and Mary hurried to catch up. They'd reached John's side by the time the door opened. Sherlock Holmes took one look at the party of three, grabbed Violet by the arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door in John Watson's face.

"Thanks, John!" Violet called out somewhat breathlessly. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

But Sherlock's face was etched with worry lines.

"Did you—"

His words were cut off by an urgent knock on the hotel room door. Tutting irritably, Sherlock wrenched it open.

"Violet's suitcase," John Watson said humourlessly.

Sherlock accepted the pull-along bag and made to shut the door in his best friend's face once more.

"Thanks, John... Mary," Violet called out. Through the closed door, she added, "We'll call you about dinner!" And to Sherlock, she said, "You're so rude!"

"Did you make the phone-call?" he asked, obviously single-focussed.

"Yes," Violet said, the now familiar pang of guilt stabbing her in the chest.

"And?"

"And, I don't know. He didn't say much."

"Do you have his number?"

Violet retrieved her phone from her pocket and handed it to Sherlock. As she removed her jacket, Sherlock swiftly navigated to her call log.

"And this isn't a number you've had stored in your phone before?"

"No."

Sherlock walked away from Violet and pulled his own phone out of his trouser pocket. Violet opened the closet door in front of her and hung up her jacket. This wasn't something she'd normally do, but she felt the need to keep distracted and busy.

"I'm going to send the number to Mycroft," Sherlock said, more to himself than Violet. "GCHQ will get onto it."

At the words, 'Mycroft' and 'GCHQ,' guilt and nausea coiled themselves inside Violet's belly. She turned from Sherlock and made for the ensuite bathroom.

"And where did you get this number from?" Sherlock asked without looking up from his phone. He tapped rapidly as he spoke. "Dan?"

Violet hesitated in the doorway. "No... I mean, yes."

Sherlock looked up in interest at this point.

"I asked him if he could get Jake to ring me," Violet continued, "because he sounded like he didn't want to give me Jake's new number."

When Sherlock looked away again, Violet escaped into the bathroom.

Sherlock had no idea what this meant to her. She'd agreed to do this. Getting Jake's number this way had been her idea, hadn't it? And convincing Jake to leave Manchester for London had also been her idea... wasn't that right? But why did she feel like a traitor? Sherlock hadn't made her do anything against her will. Her relationship with Jake Venucci had ended long ago.

Despite the rejected marriage proposal, the fight, and her refusal to answer Jake's last message to her, there appeared to be a single strand of a connection left between them. She was about to sever it, once Jake Venucci discovered Violet Hunter wasn't waiting for him in London, and never intended to be there. And now his secret mobile phone number had been given to the authorities.

That was her final act of betrayal.

-o-

 _Need I ask how you acquired this information? —MH_

 _No, you may not_ , Sherlock thought, deciding not to respond to his brother's query.

But as to the question of whether or not Jake Venucci would do as Violet asked, he'd need further information from his girlfriend. Ignoring the fact that the bathroom door was shut, and hearing the sound of the shower running, Sherlock gave a superfluous knock, then opened the door anyway.

"And how long—"

Violet was standing in front of the bath/shower and holding a hand out to test the water. When Sherlock burst in, she gave a little jump in surprise and turned to look at him. Her face was awash with tears.

Sherlock's stomach dropped just a tad.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Have I done something...?"

 _Of course it was his fault,_ Sherlock thought, hurriedly rewinding to when Violet initially entered the hotel room. He hadn't even greeted her when she arrived with John and Mary.

"No," Violet replied.

"Is it because I didn't say 'hello' and I didn't hug you when you arrived?"

"No." A faint flicker of amusement crossed Violet's face. "I think I'm used to your type of greeting by now." She turned back to face the water and outstretched a hand to test the temperature again. "What do you want?"

Sherlock allowed his eyes to drop down to the bathtub. It was also filling via the lower tap while the shower ran overhead. He put this little curiosity to the back of his mind while he scrambled to remember the purpose of his intrusion.

"Um... oh! How much time elapsed before Jake called you back?"

Sherlock could see Violet wiping her eyes while her back was turned.

"It was only a couple of minutes before he rang." She had answered him without turning to face him. Sherlock discarded the knowledge that Violet was upset for _reasons not yet determined_ and instead fully focussed on this new information that was related to the case.

"Good," he said, turning to leave. "That means he still cares about you."

He swiftly exited the bathroom, leaving his girlfriend in peace. Now what was he about to do?

Violet had implied that Sherlock was rude for dismissing their friends when all he could focus on was the completion of the first task he'd assigned Violet. Therefore, he was somehow obligated to keep the peace, otherwise John and Mary may begin to feel unappreciated. And it was important to thank people who help you now and again. Apparently.

Sherlock rang down to the hotel's restaurant and made a booking for a party of four at 8pm. Then he sent a text to John, informing him of their dinner plans.

And now to have sex with his girlfriend. It had been almost one week! In the past, Sherlock could have coped with a period of abstinence—at least until all other avenues of excitement had been closed off. But ever since Violet had entered his life, he felt certain days and events were well-punctuated by a good romp in the sack. And she often felt the same way.

Sherlock hurriedly undressed and entered the ensuite clad only in his underwear. Violet was standing underneath the shower and rinsing out her hair, while the bath continued to fill beneath her.

"Why are you running both?" he asked.

Violet started and turned around.

"Stop doing that!" And then she ran her eyes down Sherlock's body. He thought that was an opportune moment to take off his last item of clothing. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock flicked his underwear away.

"I'm..." He gestured toward the bath. He really wished Violet wouldn't ask questions when logic could provide the answer.

"No," she said, turning off the shower and wiping her eyes. "I want to have some me-time."

"What?"

" _Me_ -time."

"What's M.E. time?"

" _Me!_ " she repeated, before lowering herself into the bath water with an audible sigh. "It means 'time by myself.'"

"But..." Sherlock said, looking down at his girlfriend. Violet commenced lathering her skin. _He_ was supposed to be doing that right about now. "We haven't seen each other all week. I've just spent five days masturbating in a steamy shower with nothing but a photo of you and your _Regency Road_ actress friends from a fashion article." Violet looked up at him with wide eyes, so Sherlock continued with his explanation. "I propped up the magazine on the lid of the toilet and strategically placed toilet rolls to cover the faces of your co-stars. Do you know how many times the shower stall steamed up and I had to wipe the condensation from the glass part-way through!"

Violet gaped a little, until her expression split into a wide smile. Her eyes lit up and she began laughing, that high-pitched giggle that meant she loved some aspect of his being, and was just about to hug him for being adorable.

"Okay," she said laughingly. She bent her legs at the knees and gestured to the end of the bathtub.

"It's hot," Sherlock said as he settled in. "Why does it have to be so hot?"

-o-

Sherlock knew it wasn't an appropriate question to ask an actor, especially one who had nothing else on the horizon. Even _he_ knew that. At least he did these days. He shot John Watson a look, which the doctor pretended to ignore.

"Well," Violet began, "I've got some professional development scheduled in. You have to continue to work on these things in between projects. Were we ordering more wine?"

Sherlock's heart sank. Yes, it was strategic of Violet to respond vaguely to John's question of, "What will you be doing next?" before changing the subject, but she was drinking like a fish, and so was John, come to think of it.

Perhaps it was the slight narrowing of Sherlock's eyes, or the down-turned corners of his mouth that prompted Mary to make excuses. Whatever it was, Sherlock appreciated the gesture of support. John Watson's fiancée was quite perceptive, Sherlock always thought.

"Big day tomorrow," Mary said. She rubbed John's arm affectionately. "Come on, fiancé, you need your beauty sleep."

"Oi!" John responded, laughing lightly.

Yes, definitely tipsy.

With a tiny nod to Mary, Sherlock stood up and buttoned his jacket.

"Yes," he said. "Big day tomorrow."

Mary and John rose from their seats as well, but Violet had her head bowed as she stared intently at the drinks menu.

"Or dessert cocktails," she declared, before looking up. "I don't have to wear a corset any— oh!"

"Perhaps room service?" Sherlock suggested. He held out a hand to Violet, which she ignored.

She sighed loudly, pushed her chair out a little, then proceeded to look on the floor around her.

"Where's my purse?"

"You decided not to bring it, remember?" Sherlock replied.

Violet stood, fixed Sherlock with a look of defiance, and then rounded the table.

"John!" she said, in a conspiratorial stage whisper. She linked an arm into the doctor's and started leading him away from. "Mini-bar!"

Sherlock watched the pair crossing the restaurant, sharing a private joke. He huffed out a sigh, then pushed in both his and Violet's chairs.

"Everything all right?" Mary asked, her expression one of concern.

 _Sometimes I think my girlfriend has a drinking problem,_ Sherlock thought, longing for a confidante. _But I haven't come to a definitive conclusion yet. This is something I don't want to find further evidence of._

Since he wasn't sure if he had anything valid to be concerned about, he decided not to voice his thoughts.

"Yes. Fine," he replied.

Despite both John and Violet's enthusiasm to continue imbibing alcohol, both Mary and Sherlock were able to dissuade their respective partners from detouring to the hotel's cocktail lounge.

Showing an enormously uncharacteristic side of himself when in public, Sherlock held Violet close while they were in the lift with John and Mary. He whispered in her ear in his sinfully low register that he wanted to return to the hotel room as soon as possible because he had five days' worth of frustration to relieve.

Violet giggled and pressed herself close, whispering back to Sherlock that she knew where there were some pretty seedy alleyways in Manchester. Sherlock blinked uncomfortably because they had company, even though the others couldn't hear the exchange. Violet didn't notice Sherlock's discomfort as she nuzzled into his neck, and nor did John and Mary who were standing in front of them, close to the doors.

Sherlock didn't want to have sex with Violet while she was in this state and he was sober. He knew she'd consumed five drinks—enough to get her inebriated, but not too much that she wouldn't remember anything the next day.

Once they'd said goodnight to their friends and had entered their room, Sherlock didn't have to work too hard to get Violet undressed and into bed. He then persuaded her to relax first and listen to his soothing voice (as she liked to call it). He described the processes required to retrieve genetic material in order to extract DNA. His method worked. Violet was asleep within five minutes.

She didn't surface until eleven the next morning. Since the wedding was scheduled for the mid-afternoon, Sherlock reasoned they had plenty of time. He decided not to wake her any earlier. John and Mary were spending the day sight-seeing around Manchester so he didn't have to cater to their needs.

As soon as she began stirring, Sherlock drew her a bath. By the time she finished her long soak, her room service breakfast had arrived. Violet said little throughout what was left of the morning. When she began her long grooming process, Sherlock went downstairs with the excuse that he wanted to book their cab in person, because he felt there was a certain amount of disdain for voices at the end of the phone, and he'd get better service in person. In truth, he needed a nicotine fix.

The wedding service was boring and pointless—not as horrific as a theatre performance, but pretty close. At least the tears were real, although Sherlock had expected them to come from the bride, not the groom.

After the ceremony, Violet held Sherlock's hand tightly. He knew why. She'd said to him during the cab journey, "You're going to meet a lot of people who don't like me." She hadn't elaborated, but Sherlock immediately empathised, which was another milestone for him. He knew how he used to cope in those situations: you seek out the one person who genuinely did like you, and stay by their side. His great aunt on his mother's side was one such candidate and a great ally.

But how would Violet cope?

If the wedding was the only event on today's agenda, he knew he and Violet would steadily get drunk, leave the wedding early, then seek out one of Manchester's finest alleyways. Sherlock didn't seem to have a problem with Violet's drinking when he also indulged. In those cases, it seemed mutually supportive, and more importantly, it was for a good cause—that is, for his own amusement and distraction. _Not a coping mechanism, Mycroft._ Tonight, however, all they planned to do wedding-wise was to leave early.

As Violet was required for family photos, (as _the Step-Sister_ , she said with disdain) Sherlock slunk away to have another secret fix of nicotine. He'd had two by the time Violet found him, around the back of the church, peering along a hedge into which a squirrel had disappeared.

"You are going to quit one day?"

"Nope," he said, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his heel.

Violet didn't look happy with him. She gestured back toward the rabble.

"We can get a lift to the reception with Simon's cousin, Maggie, or there's a mini bus."

"What's wrong with a cab by ourselves?"

After Violet had sighed deeply and told Sherlock what he already knew—that they'd have to walk to the main road to find one—he replied that he didn't care, and to take whichever option Violet preferred.

"We'll get a lift with Maggie and Ron, then," Violet said. "They'll be quicker and I need a fucking drink."

-o-

"Damian Goulburn-Hurst," the best man said, offering his hand to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I know," Damian said, grasping Sherlock's hand and giving it a firm shake. "You're just a little bit famous, you and our girl here." Sherlock's insides involuntarily twisted at the man's reference to Violet as _our girl._ "And I believe we have another mutual friend," the best man added, smiling cryptically at Sherlock.

"Do we?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed with Violet's ex-boyfriend so far. He had spied the best man from afar, talking to Violet during the photo sessions outside the church. Her body language had told Sherlock that Violet wasn't enjoying their interaction.

Damian Goulburn-Hurst had made a beeline toward Sherlock and Violet at the reception as soon as he spotted them. Violet was talking to a young woman, whose name Sherlock had immediately forgotten, so Damian had taken it upon himself to make the introductions while Violet was preoccupied.

"Yes, Katherine Holder. Kate." Damian turned to Violet when she farewelled her friend as Sherlock's insides roiled. He had hoped Kate Holder hadn't confided in Damian just how far back her relationship with Sherlock extended, for he hadn't even told Violet how he lost his virginity. And with whom.

"Sorry," Violet said, realising she hadn't introduced the two men.

"Oh, no apologies necessary. I was just telling Sherlock here that we have a mutual friend. Kate Holder."

"Oh, Kate. Yes," Violet said.

"Do you know her?" Damian asked in surprise.

"Yes, both Sherlock and I were at the Holder estate."

"Oh, really? Kate didn't mention meeting you." He turned back to Sherlock as if to dismiss Violet's contribution. Sherlock didn't fail to notice Violet clenching her jaw. "I believe you sorted out some family business for them?" Damian asked Sherlock.

"Indeed, we did."

"We?"

"Violet assists me on my cases whenever she's available," Sherlock said, looking pointedly at Violet. "She provides a unique insight I invariably miss. The case wouldn't have been solved without her."

"Oh, really?"

Damian's face contorted into one of incredulity. Sherlock couldn't believe Violet had dated this man, although she had stated that Damian had dumped her. Why hadn't it been the other way around?

"And what do you... do?" Sherlock asked, after flipping through his file on _Social Courtesies_ in his Mind Palace. It was a document he sought now and again, usually reserved for retrieving evidence from unwilling witnesses. He'd put it to good use during the last couple of hours of this insufferable function. But he did want this idiot to stop making his girlfriend feel bad about herself. Sherlock noted that Violet had drained the last of her champagne, in direct contrast to her earlier agreement to make one glass last the entire evening.

"Damian's a lawyer," Violet swiftly cut in. "Is that what you still do... lawyer-ing?" And she raised an eyebrow, as if she wasn't impressed. Good for her, Sherlock thought.

Damian delivered a humourless laugh.

"Yes, speaking of," he said, reaching inside his jacket pocket. "I've just been made a partner." Damian had lowered his voice, as if he was imparting confidential information to Sherlock alone. "And we're moving to London next month." He retrieved what looked like a business card. "And dear Jessica," he continued, glancing at Violet as if she would be interested now that he'd mentioned a female's name, "doesn't know anybody." Damian held out his card to Sherlock. "So, let's have dinner, the four of us. And the girls can natter about... whatever they do." He laughed again, but Sherlock simply frowned and took the card in silence.

"I'm not sure I move in the same sort of circles that Jessica's used to," Violet said.

"Oh, but you're doing well now, aren't you?" Damian said, placing affectionate hands on Violet's shoulders. "Got yourself straightened out," he added in a low voice. And then he winked, while Violet's expression turned murderous. Sherlock didn't want to be in Damian's shoes right now.

But the best man seemed completely oblivious that he was moments away from losing one or both testicles, and turned to Sherlock, holding up a hand in a static wave.

"Fantastic to meet you. Must move on. Work the room, and all that."

Sherlock watched him leave, his mind still not computing that this man and Violet were once in a relationship. Meanwhile, Violet snatched the business card out of Sherlock's hand and held out her now empty champagne glass for him to take.

"No, we're not having dinner with them. _Ever_! He told all his friends and family that I was a drug addict. I'm going to drop this into the toilet and piss on it. Excuse me."

She left Sherlock, who was momentarily stunned. After he regained his composure, he knew that this Violet Hunter was the perfect version to inflict on Sebastian Moran later that evening. Now, how could he preserve her current mood?

-oOo-

* * *

 **A/N:** It was a bit long, I know, and my updates are frequent these days—not annoyingly so, I hope—but the words are flowing at the moment. Don't forget to leave a comment now and again! I'd love to know who else is still reading. Thanks to _thedragonaunt_ , _magentacr, GraceMonroe, primitiveLogic, Gwilwillith, Leona, deschperado and Morrowsong_ for your lovely words so far!


	42. Not Exactly a West End Role

**A recap, because it's been so long between drinks:**

Sherlock and Violet have been to Violet's step-brother's wedding in Manchester. Sherlock decides to take advantage of their visit up north to enlist his girlfriend to confront Sebastian Moran in the gangster's favourite haunt, Kabuki Pirates, owned by Violet's ex-boyfriend, Jake Venucci. Part of the plan had Violet trick Jake, who is a business associate of Moran, to go to London to meet her there while she and Sherlock are, in fact, in Manchester. Sherlock has also enlisted the help of John and Mary.

* * *

 **Chapter 4** **1** **– Not Exactly a West End Role**

John shoved his hands into his jacket pockets then withdrew them again. He tried his trouser pockets. Too casual. Finally, he decided to let them hang by his sides, ready for action. He puffed out his chest a little and set his jaw. There. The perfect demeanour of a bodyguard.

John exhaled deeply. He listened to the exchange between Violet and the Kabuki Pirates nightclub bouncer. At a nod from the big man himself, Violet waved a flippant hand in the air and said to the bouncer, "He's with me."

She strode away without a backward glance, probably confident in the knowledge that John would be permitted entry. John guessed this was the way to act when you were either something of a celebrity or the World's Only Consulting Detective. He dutifully fell into step behind her.

His heart began to thump in time to the music that enveloped him once he'd stepped inside the club. They had strode through to the foyer area, when Violet turned to him.

"Don't worry about what Sherlock told you," she said. "I know these people. Just don't react, whatever happens."

"S-sorry?" John responded, blinking a couple of times in confusion.

"If I get dragged away by someone seedy, I'll remain silent. Then you'll know I'm in danger. If I'm taken away by someone I trust, I'll put on a bit of a show. So don't feel as though you need to respond. Okay? Just do what you're supposed to do."

Without waiting for a reply from him, Violet strode away. John forced himself to keep moving, his mind still pondering Violet's illogical statements. They were in enemy territory now, and Violet was clearly more successful at navigating through the sea of gyrating bodies than he was. John felt he had to apologise every time he was jostled against someone.

The distance between him and Violet was growing with every moment. Time was measured by electronic techno beats and coloured strobe lights. He saw Violet up ahead glance around at him before she cut a path across the dance floor.

"Oh, Christ," John muttered as the dancers parted then closed in around Violet. Was she stopping to talk to somebody? There was no way John could accelerate through the bodies. God, he felt so old! He must look like someone's dad, coming to haul their half-naked body out of the club, despite Mary insisting he wear a dark, plain shirt instead of his usual plaid or checked ones.

Violet had left the dance floor, and John couldn't see beyond the strobing lights which direction she had taken. Suddenly a well-groomed, man-scaped twenty-something-year-old barred John's way.

"Hey, mate," the man yelled over the music. "You're to go this way."

The young man lightly placed his hands on John's shoulders and made to turn the doctor around.

"No," John yelled back, standing fast. "I'm going—"

"She wants you to enter using a different set of stairs," the man called back. "So you don't look like you're together. Remember?"

John remembered no such thing, but this was definitely the young man Violet had been talking to only a moment ago. John turned in the direction he was pointing. There was another set of stairs against the rear wall of the club. John wasted no time in crossing the floor and ascending. He knew roughly where he was supposed to position himself—on the corner of the bar, facing the lounge chairs that were spread along the glass wall overlooking the dance floor below. Violet had given him these instructions in the cab on their way to the club.

There were two vacant bar stools at the far corner of the bar. He aimed for the one right on the corner that would give him a decent view of the seating area.

As he approached, he saw Violet facing a group who were seated on the sofas. She had her back to John, but he could see that the party consisted of an older, balding man, flanked by two young men with shaved heads, and two female companions on the edges.

"Violet fucking Hunter," the man in the middle was saying.

John recognised the thirty-something, bespectacled man immediately from photos Sherlock had shown him. Sebastian Moran wore his suit one size too small with the jacket gaping over his generous stomach.

He couldn't hear how Violet responded, but the young man to Moran's left suddenly stood, making room for Violet to take a seat next to the Manchester gangster. Violet was laughing. And joking. And if John hadn't just been talking to her sensibly in a taxi ten minutes prior, he would've thought she was intoxicated.

"Look at you! Jake's fucking tart. Who'd 'ave thought!" Moran exclaimed in his thick Northern accent.

John had to drag his attention away from the group so he could order some fruity vodka mix.

"And don't you dare order a pint!" Violet had joked earlier. "It won't go with the image."

Violet had been speaking a whole lot of nonsense about nightclub etiquette in the taxi ride. John didn't quite understand at the time, but he hoped the drink Violet suggested he order didn't taste like fermented peach.

There was now a lot of laughter coming from the group Violet had joined. Raucous laughter. Violet had successfully infiltrated them. How was she going to turn it around?

John quietly sipped his drink, resisting the urge to turn his head and stare. He focussed on the faces along the length of the bar. Young men and women were huddled in groups of two or three and no one seemed interested in the private party who were growing louder by the minute.

He tried to keep half his attention on Violet and Moran's party with his gaze fixed firmly in front of him as he slowly sipped his drink. When he heard Violet's loud exclamation, he briefly threw a glance in Violet's direction. Violet was hugging a young man who had just joined the group.

"Sit down with us!" she said, gesturing widely at the sofas. Yes, definitely drunk.

John guessed this may be the friend and possible ally Sherlock had told him about. Dan. Dan the Man. This was definitely not Jake Venucci. John also knew what he looked like.

But if Dan showed up, Sherlock said, then Violet may not need John's intervention if the situation turned sour. John just had to sit tight, and observe. Sherlock's favourite word, the annoying git.

John drained the rest of his drink, then wished he hadn't. He felt like gagging. He raised a finger toward the bartender. He placed his order—a whiskey this time, no more pathetic vodka mixes.

John wondered what life had been like for Violet when she had been Jake Venucci's mistress. He immediately dismissed the visual memory he had of the surveillance photo he'd once accidentally seen. Violet seemed like such a nice young woman. How could she get mixed up with characters such as these?

Then again, how had she ended up in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes? That notion still stumped John now and again.

He wasn't left to his musings for very long when a disturbance drew his attention once more.

"Seb!" yelled the young man John assumed was Dan.

Sebastian Moran, Violet and Dan were all out of their seats. Moran had a thick hand around Violet's neck and she was spluttering. Dan had clamped his hand onto Moran's wrist and was saying something intently to the gangster. Every muscle in John's body tensed, every instinct telling him to get in there, both Sherlock's and Violet's instructions to him at odds with each other. Interfere, or don't react, whatever happens?

But as John poised on the edge of his seat, Moran released his grip on Violet. The actress immediately recomposed herself, her jaw set defiantly.

And then she spat in Sebastian Moran's face.

-o-

Mary's phone pinged, causing Sherlock's heart to hiccup. She held up the screen for him to read.

 _Just finishing my drink,_ the message from John read. _And then I'll be on my way._

Sherlock clenched his fists and Mary affectionately patted his arm. Just hang in there, she was silently telling him.

This was the signal informing them that Violet had antagonised Manchester's most notorious gangster. A wordy message from John. So things had not yet gone pear-shaped. The situation hadn't become charged and the ex-army soldier was sitting tight and _observing_ the action.

"I'll go in then," Mary said to him from the driver's seat. "We don't know how long it'll be before—"

"I know."

Sherlock stared through the windscreen of the rental car at the uninteresting darkened street that ran adjacent to their hotel. They'd already packed their things and had checked out. The plan was for Mary to wait in the lobby for Violet. Sherlock was still keeping a low profile in Manchester, after all. There was a good chance Violet and John would arrive separately if there was a large gap between Violet being escorted out of the club, and John having to watch Moran's movements. Hopefully, Violet wouldn't be escorted out of the club by Moran himself.

Mary would text Sherlock from inside the hotel when she received a second message from John.

So far, everything had gone according to his plan. What Sherlock hadn't initially thought about was that his involment in the execution of the plan was that he would have to sit and wait. He had been idle and out of his mind with not only boredom due to inactivity, but… _what was this emotion?_

 _Worry._

He was worrying about Violet, for fuck's sake. He knew she was the perfect person for the job. Because of her background, her relationship with their target, and because she was… well… Violet, there was no other suitable candidate. Who else could you unleash in a nightclub's private area especially reserved for underworld crime figures but an actress who's warm and friendly to everybody, but can swear like a scouser and threaten your manhood in a single stare? But what if he was wrong? She could go off script. Moran could behave aggressively and unpredictably because he was basically an idiot. And what if Venucci hadn't high-tailed it to London? The entire evening could be for nought.

Sherlock escaped the confines of the car for the thick shadows underneath a canopy of trees. He wrestled his cigarette packet from his jacket pocket. Ever since Violet Hunter had entered his life, his success rate for giving up smoking had been reduced to zero percent.

He crossed one leg in front of the other and exhaled toward the sky. His phone buzzed. Sherlock immediately dropped the cigarette to the footpath and fumbled for his phone. He quickly glanced at the message from Mary.

 _John's on his way._

What about Violet?

-o-

"You don't have to come up with me," Violet said to an anxious Danny. "S'better if you don't. Why don't you sit with me for a bit?"

She hoped her eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears would be enough to convince Jake's offsider that he shouldn't part company with her just yet. Violet gestured toward the lounge chairs in the hotel foyer, where only one other occupant sat reading today's Daily Mail.

Mary Morstan.

"Vi," Dan said, exhaling in exasperation. But he still supported her anyway. She was unsteady on her feet after all.

As far as Danny was concerned, Violet had attended her step-brother's wedding earlier that evening, got quite tipsy, and decided to go out partying when Sherlock had opted to retreat back to their hotel. She had wanted to call in on Jake at his club and was upset and confused that he wasn't around, especially after her encounter with Moran.

Violet and Sherlock had discussed many scenarios that may unfold throughout the evening. The best case was if her friend Danny was present. She knew he'd make sure she had a safe exit out of the club. And keeping Dan close, meant she could ensure he wasn't the one to ring Jake. It had to be Moran. But she had to keep an eye on Dan until she knew Moran had made the call. It was up to John to stay behind at the club and observe Moran until he did so.

Violet screaming back to the organised crime boss, "Wait til Jake gets here! You're fucking dead!" as Danny swiftly ushered her away, was to help prompt Moran to ring Jake and demand his presence since he'd been disrespected by Jake Venucci's whore. Or did he remember she was Sherlock Holmes's whore now? Either way, a call to Jake would almost definitely be on the cards. Moran had been dissed in Jake's club, after all.

Violet leant into Dan, sneaking a glance in Mary's direction. Her partner-in-crime was silently reading the paper, or at least pretending to.

"I don't want Sherlock to see me yet," she whispered to Danny, accompanying her comment with a deep sigh.

"Yeah, I might just…" Danny said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"No," Violet said, straightening up and resting her hand on his. "Don't ring him yet. You know Jake'll go charging into the club and confront Moran, and the guy's a psycho."

Concern was etched all over Danny's face, and again Violet felt guilt ripple through her.

"I just don't know where he's got to tonight," Danny said.

Violet heard Mary mutter under her breath, "Finally," so Violet sank back into Danny. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mary rise from her seat.

"Do you think they'll let me fall asleep here?" she asked Danny, moving into the final phase of their plan. "I'm so tired."

"Ah," he said, straightening up and forcing Violet upright. "I should take you up, yeah?" He sounded predictably uncomfortable. "Sherlock won't be too angry with you, will he? I can stick around if—"

"No," she said as Mary made her way over to the empty reception counter, her attention on her phone screen as she tapped away at it. "He'll probably be asleep by now," Violet added. She allowed Dan to assist her to her feet. She turned to him and snaked her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she whispered, hugging him close.

Danny patted her back then led Violet over to the lifts. A slight drunken wobble accentuated her steps.

"I'll ring you tomorrow," she said through slitted eyes, as the lift doors pinged open.

She turned into the lift and gravitated toward the back wall. With a resigned smile to Danny, who lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave, she leant heavily against the rear of the lift. As soon as the doors shut, she strode forward and pressed the button for the first floor. The lift heaved itself upwards and Violet rummaged around her bag for her mobile. Mary hadn't messaged her yet, so Violet exited onto the first floor and paced up and down in front of the lifts.

She longed to ring Sherlock, but he was adamant she didn't have contact with anybody until it was all over.

Everything seemed to have fallen into place. She'd socialised with Moran, who thought it was amusing that Violet fucking Hunter—as he kept calling her—was now something of a celebrity. _I remember you when you were Jake's tart._ And would she like to perform as a guest DJ in his club, he'd asked. What a fucking sleazy, low-life scum that man was. He gave the impression he was some kind of womaniser, until his jokes became too crude and Violet asked him which of his young boys he was fucking tonight. She had expected him to hurl abuse at her, his secret life never to be spoken about. His physical violence against her hardly came as a surprise either.

Violet lifted a hand to her tender, swollen throat. What would Sherlock think? How would he react? What would Jake think? She was surprised she hadn't feared for her life. At the time, she was hit by a surge of adrenaline. Spitting in Moran's face was just the start. It was for the best that Dan had dragged her away, both for the pantomime it was supposed to be, and the reality it could've turned out to be. She had felt fucking murderous. Sebastian Moran had been lucky he had escaped with only a wad a phlegm sliding down his rude fucker face.

-o-

Sherlock dropped the cigarette, his third, onto the footpath the second he saw Mary and Violet emerge through the hotel doors. He kept to the shadows, resisting the urge to sprint toward his girlfriend to see if she needed mending. The moment she saw him, a grin stretched across her face.

"I saw that," she said as she stepped up onto the kerb.

"Saw what?" he responded, his heart thumping erratically inside his chest. How could she remain so calm? Why hadn't she thrown herself into his arms right about now? Didn't she know how explosive the situation could've become? And didn't she care how stressed he was about things over which he had no control?

"The cigarette."

Violet pulled up in front of him, one eyebrow arched in the issuing of a challenge. Sherlock stared down at her at a loss for words.

The intensity of his gaze must've had some effect on her, because her eyes started to water. Sherlock immediately reached for Violet and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"Come on, you two," Mary bid them. She pulled open the driver's side door. "Save the emotional reunion for later? We should've left Manchester twelve minutes ago by your calculations, Sherlock."

Sherlock held Violet a second longer before he reluctantly released her. This time, she avoided his gaze and climbed into the back seat of the car. Sherlock joined her as Mary started the engine.

"John's about a minute away," Mary said.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked Violet. His stomach hadn't stopped churning, which was an odd reaction during a critical point in a case. Excitement, yes. Nervousness? It had no place in his genetic makeup.

"I'm fine."

In the confines of the car, with minimal lighting from street lamps filtering in through the windows, Sherlock could see Violet's eyes glistening with tears. At least, he hoped they were. Surely he couldn't be the only one who was operating on heightened emotions. Violet had probably approached him with false bravado, but now that her involvement was nearing an end, her composed demeanour was about to crumble.

"What happened?" he asked.

Violet forced a smile to her face that didn't fool Sherlock for one second. She opened her mouth to respond, but her phone began to ring from the confines of her handbag.

Mary met Sherlock's eyes through the rearview mirror. They both knew who would be ringing Violet at half eleven.

"Switch the engine off," Sherlock told Mary.

Violet rubbed the tip of her nose before she answered the call. A tell, a small gesture by somebody who is lying, or about to lie.

She turned away from Sherlock and said into the phone, "Where… the fuck… have you been?"

Sherlock recognised the slur in her voice immediately. It was a "Violet under the influence" way of speaking. A knot formed in his stomach, even though he knew she was acting. He was transported back to Baker Street, sometime late last year, when he believed Violet to be a spy for Jake Venucci and Sherlock had just returned from abroad. He had been cold and cruel to Violet and she had spent the evening getting drunk on red wine and waiting for him to come home from a case. She demanded an explanation about why he had never returned her calls. She sounded just like she did in this moment.

"…and that fucking… fucking sleazy cunt of a business partner…"

In the rearview mirror, Mary's eyebrows shot up.

"…and you weren't there. Where the fuck…? No, I won't…"

Every sense in Sherlock's body was heightened. To think that Jacob Venucci was on the other end of the phone right now, trying to make sense of Violet in this apparent state.

"I said _Sherlock and I_ won't be in London… why did you think we… you went _all the way_ to London?"

Violet leant forward, her head bowed with her forehead resting against the seat in front. She choked out, "Moran. You know what he did to me? I'll show you what he did."

Sherlock's stomach dropped. Was she lying still, or did something actually happen with Moran? There was always that risk. The man had violent, murderous tendencies, and Sherlock had set his girlfriend upon him. He had to bite back his own tongue; he wanted to use it to interrogate his girlfriend right now.

"… you weren't there," she lamented again. "I was at a wedding… you stupid fuck, Jake. You never…" It sounded as if she was trying to talk over Jake. "… never listen to a word I say. _Simon's wedding._ " Violet choked out a sob then lowered her voice. "You know how much they hate me. It was awful. I needed to see you."

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, willing himself not to be taken in by Violet's words and the emotion she was conveying. _Needing Jake._ She had gone to the wedding with Sherlock, but it was Jake's support and comfort she sought.

It was a lie. A trick. But Violet was almost convincing Sherlock of this erroneous notion.

After he opened his eyes once more, they met Mary's again in the mirror. He tried not to show any emotion, but he had the feeling Mary Morstan could see right through him.

"…you have to do something about that crazy fucker, Jake… no, I _don't care! Why don't you change your number again, if you're so worried!_ "

Mary tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was growing as uncomfortable as Sherlock was.

"If fact, change your number." Violet lowered her voice again. "Sherlock checks my phone."

 _What!_ Sherlock shot Violet a look, but she had her head bowed again.

Violet quickly added, "I have to go. Sherlock's coming."

She ended the call, then immediately turned her phone around and held it out in front of herself.

"What was that!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Why did you tell him to change his number?"

Violet tilted her chin upwards and her phone's flash went off. For the briefest of seconds while her neck had been illuminated, Sherlock caught sight of angry red welts encircling Violet's throat.

His mouth ran dry. Violet began tapping away at her phone.

"What was that!" Sherlock tapped a few keys on his own phone until the torch app invoked the light. He pointed it at Violet's neck, but her bowed head obscured his view. "Violet!"

"John's here," Mary said.

"I'm sending this to Jake," Violet said.

"What the fuck is that…" Sherlock said, raising his voice as John climbed into the front passenger seat and whirled around at Sherlock's words. Sherlock's eyes blazed with a new intensity. "And why did you tell him to change his number?"

In that moment, he didn't know what he was more upset about: Violet warning Jake to change his number, or the marks around her neck, consistent with somebody strangling her.

Violet finally looked up at him, her own expression mirroring Sherlock's. "Because I don't want GCHQ, or whatever fucking organisation your brother controls, monitoring Jake, okay?"

"Violet!"

"They've got Sebastian Moran's number now. They can spy on him, but they're—"

"Violet! He'll warn Moran—"

"He won't!" she said, yelling over Sherlock and waving her phone at him. "He's got no reason to."

"I'm _Sherlock fucking Holmes_!" Sherlock yelled. " _And you just told him I check your phone!_ "

" _To get him on my side!_ _And I've just sent him this!_ " She waved her phone around again.

"Look, you two," Mary interjected. John looked around in bewilderment. "Can we go now?" Mary turned on the ignition and the engine roared to life.

"What did he do to you?" Sherlock asked, his voice like gravel. "Your throat?"

"She's fine, Sherlock," John volunteered. "I saw it happen."

"Seat belts, please," Mary said politely. She pulled the car away from the kerb.

"You can tell by her voice," John added, pulling on his seat belt as the car accelerated toward the intersection. "It doesn't sound—"

"Why didn't you step in?" Sherlock said, turning his accusatory glare toward John.

"Because she—"

"Seat belts!"

"It's all fine, Sherlock," Violet said, also pulling her seat belt around her and clicking it into its holder. "Everything went to pl—"

"He fucking strangled you!"

"I'm f—"

Mary slammed on the brake before the intersection, making Sherlock lurch forward, his head hitting John's seat in front.

"Ow!"

"Seat belt on, Sherlock!"

"You did that on purpose."

"Everyone just needs to calm down," Mary said. She twisted around and glared at the detective. "Sherlock. Violet is fine. The doctor has given his medical op—"

"He hasn't even examined her," Sherlock said sulkily, but dutifully clicking on his seat belt.

"Shush!" Mary snapped, and she pointed a finger in Violet's direction. "Violet has successfully fooled Jake into thinking it was his mistake that he was in London, so he won't be suspicious it was all a set up. She cried to him for support about the wedding and sent him a photo showing Moran's attack on her. That will put him squarely on her side and against Moran. You've given Mycroft the chronology and timing of the phone calls?" When Sherlock gave her a half nod, Mary continued. "So now they can use their top secret surveillance software to invoke Moran's phone's camera and microphone, and search for any calls made to Ronald Adair previously."

"How did you—"

"Jake won't warn Moran to change his number if he's feeling particularly murderous toward him. If I'm not mistaken, Jake will text any second now and ask for confirmation that Moran caused those marks on Violet's neck and not you. If he cares about her at all."

Sherlock scowled. _Stupid conclusions. And how did Mary know about GCHQ's surveillance capabilities? How could she be so sure about everything? And what made her think Jake would—_

Violet's phone buzzed and lit up with a new message. She cleared her throat and read out, " _Did Moran do that?_ "

Sherlock set his jaw. Fucking low-life. How dare Venucci show his concern for Violet after the injuries he inflicted on her in Belgravia? And he had no business receiving Violet's help either.

Sherlock watched as Violet typed out a _Yes_ in reply.

The car remained idle at the intersection. Mary appeared to be waiting for something.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He sullenly stared out of his window as the car moved across the intersection.

Perhaps Mary was right. Every other aspect about his plan had been successful. Mycroft's bods had Jake's number. They knew precisely at what time a call from Moran would've come in, thanks to John waiting around in the club for a ranting gangster to hurl abuse at the club owner who should've been there to exercise control over a drunken ex-girlfriend. So now they'd have Moran's phone number, too. And his was the important one.

But nowhere in Sherlock's plan did he want Violet to receive physical injuries. And she had shaken off her initial emotional reaction about it. This idea sat uncomfortably in Sherlock's gut. He should never have used Violet in this way.

As they sped toward the outskirts of Manchester, he felt Violet's warm hand curl around his.

He turned to her to find a mischievous glint in her eye and the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. She silently beckoned for him to lean closer to her. Thinking Violet was about to whisper something to him, he bowed his head forward. Violet cupped a hand to Sherlock's cheek and turned his face toward her. She pressed a soft kiss onto his lips and Sherlock felt his cheeks flush.

He cleared his throat as if to dismiss Violet's gesture. He felt like a naughty teenager in the back of his parents' car, who had stolen a kiss from his girlfriend.

Violet's smile grew wider. He knew that expression. It meant, _I knew what I was doing all along, and everything turned out exactly as I had planned._ It was one he wore quite frequently at the end of a case.

Violet had thwarted danger; she had toyed with the emotions of their opponents and used them for her own purposes. Sherlock's chest expanded with something unfamiliar. Pride? He couldn't help but return Violet's smile as a warmth drizzled through him.

He knew he had sent in the best person for the job.

-oOo-

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Apologies for the delay in posting. I estimate about half a dozen chapters remaining in this story part. Welcome to new readers!


	43. You Always Say Such Horrible Things

**Chapter 4** **2 – You Always Say Such Horrible Things**

Sherlock's shirt was twisted around his back. He had pulled it out of his trousers at some frustrating point during the day. Irritably, he hauled himself from his reclined position on the sofa. Perhaps he shouldn't have lain there all day in his button-up shirt, trousers and dressing gown. Where was Violet anyway? She'd said something about recording dialogue. What was that about? Hadn't she already finished shooting that ridiculous mini-series?

At the sound of the entrance door slamming shut, Sherlock swiftly ruffled his hair then stood. Light treads on the stairs made their way upward. Violet. Happy. Carrying extra packages.

"Hello!"

Chirpy. Smiley. Pleased with herself.

Sherlock's frown remained in place. Violet hadn't had a chance to see it yet. It would be wasted if he were to put it away now.

"What have you been up to today?" she asked, after depositing her packages onto the coffee table. She shrugged out of her coat and tugged at her scarf. Clearly she hadn't seen the expression on his face, otherwise she wouldn't have asked her pointless question. "Have you been lying there all day?" she added, with some semblance of an incredulous smile.

"No. I had tea, and I used the bathroom. And I took a couple of phone calls."

This prompted Violet to look at him. Really look at him.

"No cases, then?" _Nice deduction, Violet, but I thought you'd go deeper._

Sherlock huffed then slipped off his dressing gown. The extra layer wasn't helping. Everything irritated him.

"Where have you been all day?" he asked her as she made her way to the kitchen.

"Working," she called back. "I told you." Violet busied herself with the kettle and tea cups while she explained to Sherlock this thing called Additional Dialogue Recording, or ADR, for some of the scenes they'd shot on a particularly windy day the previous week.

Sherlock rolled his eyes behind her back. Stupid industry.

And then she'd gone shopping for books. There was an opportunity, her agent had informed her, to narrate a trilogy of books written by _name filtered before it entered Sherlock's Mind Palace database_ and Violet hadn't read them before.

"I need to make notes," she said.

 _Sounds like a pointless exercise._

"Well, I have some news," he said. "And if you'd been home with me, you would've heard it when it first came in."

Violet turned to face him, her expression still bright and annoyingly pleasant. His snappish comments were wasted on her. Why was she in such a good mood? The criminal classes were being woefully negligent in their obligations to society today. In short, he'd been bored and Violet didn't stay home to entertain him.

"Oh, what news?"

"Moran has been taken into custody."

Violet's smile faltered. He knew what that meant. There was a chance her precious Jake Venucci may be affected in some way.

"That's great."

Her tone suggested otherwise. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little, indicating he knew there was no real enthusiasm behind her words, but Violet turned her back on him, and the challenging glare was effectively deflected.

Sherlock positioned himself against the kitchen table, folding his arms in front of him. He added, "And they found Ronald Adair's DNA on the ring."

Violet seemed to visibly relax. Perhaps that bit of evidence meant they wouldn't search too far and wide, in the vicinity of pointless ex-boyfriends for example, for further evidence with which to convict the Manchester organised crime figure.

"Well, at least the bruises on my neck had some use," she quipped, glancing around at Sherlock.

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his girlfriend's throat liberally coated with foundation that morning. She had also taken to wearing a light, gauze scarf for her stint in the studio.

Sherlock felt pangs of guilt for not immediately spotting the bruising after Violet's ordeal on Saturday night. Nor did he address them an hour later when they had pulled up at the two bedroom cottage in Stoke-on-Trent for their overnight stay to break up their journey back to London.

They had been in a bit of a rush to debrief in the privacy of the cottage bedroom. Sherlock knew John and Mary would know exactly what he meant when he murmured that he and Violet had to debrief—at least, Mary would've deduced his intentions correctly. Sherlock had grabbed Violet by the arm and had quickly ushered her into the bedroom. But he didn't care who knew what at the time.

Violet had clearly been of the same mind. Libidos were heightened at the resolution of a case such as this, ever since Violet had either helped him on cases or cheered for his brilliance. Thankfully no such reaction had ever occurred when he had worked on cases with John Watson in tow.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what had been the catalyst on this particular occasion. Had his sexual appetite increased because his plan had worked, or because Violet had successfully improvised on it? Or because he was just relieved Violet was safe?

Whatever the cause, it made for spectacular sex. And having to stifle their cries of ecstasy only added to the excitement.

It was only the next morning, in the light of day, when Violet lay displaying her glorious nude self while she slept beside him, did Sherlock really see her creamy, pale skin alarmingly marred by vicious welts of violence.

"What…?" Violet croaked in a half-sleep state, waking to Sherlock's hand gently encircling her throat.

"Did Moran use his right or left hand?"

"Sher—"

"Think, Violet!"

She furrowed her brow, thankfully not to wonder what her boyfriend was up to, but because she was really concentrating on the question.

"Right."

Sherlock removed his hand and peered closely at the marks on Violet's neck.

"So, that's his thumb… there…" he added, after Violet dutifully lifted her chin to allow Sherlock to examine the more prominent bruises in closer proximity. "So… what's this bruising here?"

Violet couldn't tell him, so Sherlock had to use his right hand to lightly grasp Violet's throat once more.

"His ring finger," he murmured. "He was wearing a ring."

"Yes."

"A fairly large ring."

Distracted by some distant memory, Sherlock swivelled his legs from the bed and reached for his phone.

"It was gold," Violet offered, rearranging herself higher on the pillows. "And the metal was twisted, like braids."

"A Celtic design," Sherlock said, quickly tapping away at his phone. "Like this?" He held up his screen in front of Violet to show a Facebook photo enlarged for her to see.

"Yes, I think so."

Sherlock reduced the photo so she could see the owner of the ring.

"Ronald Adair," Sherlock said. "He stopped wearing that ring two weeks before his death. And I don't recall in any earlier surveillance photos Moran wearing a ring at all."

Violet's eyes widened. "So Ronny gave it to his lover as a gift."

"Most likely."

Sherlock stooped from the bed to retrieve his underwear. He couldn't text his brother while he was naked. That seemed wrong, somehow.

If Moran was taken into custody, and all his clothing and jewellery removed, the ring had to be one of the first items to be tested for the victim's DNA. This was another piece of potential evidence to add to the list he'd already given Mycroft.

"You're far too clever for a Sunday morning," Violet said.

Sherlock finished texting Mycroft, placed his phone back down onto the table and twisted around to face Violet. He knew what her tone implied.

He climbed across the bed and stretched himself out on top of her.

"Tell me again, how clever?" he asked.

But why, after such an exhilarating weekend, and upon their return to London, had Violet opted to continue working in her dull and unfulfilling industry? Didn't she just share the same experiences he had? How could dressing up in period costume and performing a pantomime compete with outwitting dangerous underworld criminals and putting your own life at risk?

Violet finished making their tea and proceeded to bore Sherlock senseless with her explanation about opportunities in the audiobook narration industry, since she didn't have any upcoming projects after her _Catherine Hilderness_ promotional obligations.

The evening was even blander by comparison, with Sherlock taking great offence at Violet opting to _read a book_ rather than share a romp in the sack with him.

"I've got one week to read three novels, Sherlock," she said, her eyes not even leaving the page.

"I'll make it worth your while," he had said, pathetically standing by her chair wearing nothing at all underneath his dressing gown.

She had chuckled, then said nothing and continued reading as if he was joking!

On Tuesday, she left him again to his dull existence for more studio boringness.

On Wednesday, her unintelligent, noisy and over-excitable friend visited. And Violet had forgotten to cover up her bruises. They still featured prominently, but had taken on a yellowish hue.

Sherlock saw Mandi's eyes widen imperceptibly as she took in the marks surrounding Violet's throat. Violet was too busy gushing about horse-riding and fucking stupid mini-series production anecdotes to notice.

"What's…" Mandi had asked faintly when she could get a word in, gesturing toward her own throat.

Sherlock listened, in growing incredulity, to Violet offering one ridiculous explanation after another about falling off a horse and an impossible costume with lacing and elastic that had no give and her embarrassment and endless re-takes. She ended with offering Mandi a chocolate hobnob (from Sherlock's secret stash!) just to change the subject.

Violet obviously hadn't remembered Sherlock's advice about only lies having detail.

Mandi's eyes had met Sherlock's while Violet had escaped into the kitchen. Her look said it all. She believed Sherlock had inflicted the injuries on Violet. Sherlock had narrowed his eyes as if to challenge Mandi for coming to such an erroneous and ridiculous conclusion, but she swiftly looked away.

The pair thankfully left Sherlock in peace, retreating upstairs to Violet's rooms to try perfume samples and talk about people whose lives Sherlock had no interest in hearing about.

When Mandi left early that evening, Sherlock was preparing to leave for Bart's. Violet was curiously silent.

"What did Mandi say?" Sherlock asked, as he patted his pockets for his phone and Violet began washing her and Mandi's dishes.

"About what?"

"About the bruises on your neck."

"Nothing."

Violet had answered far too swiftly for Sherlock's liking.

"Why didn't you tell her the truth?"

"What truth?"

Violet kept her head bowed as she rinsed the tea cups. Sherlock found her ignorance insulting.

"The actual truth!"

Violet stopped what she was doing and turned her head in Sherlock's direction.

"What? Tell her about a gangster who I was purposefully trying to provoke for a case I was working on with you?"

"Yes."

"I can't do that!"

Sherlock didn't understand. Was she ashamed of her work with him? Or embarrassed? Just what was the problem here?

"Why not?"

"Because…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and waited for her explanation. She wasn't going to get away with not voicing her concerns, however illogical they were.

"Where are you going?" she asked, glancing at his jacket. Evidently she could.

"Bart's. Molly's got a suicide victim. Ignited himself while he was covered in cooking oil. I want to see what the burn marks look like."

Violet shook her hands out over the sink, then grabbed a tea towel.

"Sounds amazing."

There was a slight lift in Sherlock's heart at her words.

"Do you want to come?"

However Violet's expression didn't seem to match the mood he'd erroneously thought she had changed into.

"I was joking."

"Oh," he said, his shoulders drooping. "I thought jokes were supposed to be funny."

Violet frowned at him, as if he was a stranger she didn't quite understand. Great. A bit of Mandi's ignorance had rubbed off on her.

Violet heaved out a sigh and said, "I've got some reading to do." Without even farewelling Sherlock with an affectionate kiss and a promise to do interesting things to him later, she left him for the bedroom.

Sherlock returned a mere two hours later, the suicide victim yielding nothing new in the way of interesting data.

Violet whooshed out of the bedroom after he'd reached the top of the stairs, perfume and sparkle accompanying her. She was made up, her hair was done, and she was one heel away from a night out on the town.

"Put your jacket back on," she said breathily. "We're going out to celebrate."

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock!"

Good God. Sherlock knew that look. He remembered it from almost a year ago, when a lesser-known actress had thrown herself at him in over-excitement after she'd won a part in a theatre production.

"What is it?" he asked, mustering no enthusiasm whatsoever.

" _The Rise of the Five,_ " she said, barely containing her excitement. She clasped her hands in front of her as if she was holding back an explosion of hugginess.

Sherlock just stared at her, his Mind Palace database wearily retrieving the entry for _The Rise of the Five._ What was it? Five what?

"The one you helped me audition for in L.A," Violet prompted, her eyes growing wider. It was going to happen any second now. And she was searching his eyes for signs of recognition. She wasn't going to find any. Sherlock was sure he had deleted a few files in his Mind Palace recently to make room for every single bit of surveillance footage he'd ever come across regarding Sebastian Moran. Well, something had to go.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked in shock as the Violet Huggy Bomb finally exploded around him. Her arms twined around his neck, her body quivering against his. He sighed deeply and wrapped his arms around her to at least steady her and prevent them from toppling over. She was still only wearing one heel after all.

"I got the part! Polly just rang!"

An unnecessary piece of information at this point in time.

"I tried to ring you," she added, easing back a little and searching his face.

"My phone's on silent."

"Come on," she said, drawing back. She dropped her second heel to the floor, then reached out to Sherlock for support as she slipped her foot into her shoe. "We're going to Angelo's. Everyone's meeting us there."

"Everyone?"

"Mandi and…" Violet paused as she turned to retrieve her coat from the back of the door. "Um… Spence, and even Tim if he's finished filming. Oh and…"

Sherlock's chest grew tight and he tuned out as Violet reeled off a few other names. There was a loud ringing in his ears and the air about him took on a strange quality.

"…then a club afterwards. But not Kabuki's, obviously."

Violet was half-way across the landing before she noticed Sherlock wasn't following her.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked a couple of times in non-comprehension.

"What are we celebrating?" he asked.

She hastened back into the living area, her eyes finally focussing on him.

"I…I got the part. As Satis. In the _Anuket's Children_ sequel. I won the part over Andrea Fabenaski!"

Sherlock's expression remained immovable.

"You remember the role," Violet prompted. "I… did… you organised for me to learn parkour. We filmed—"

"I remember," Sherlock said. "But I don't know why we have to go out."

"To celebrate!"

Sherlock's insides were roiling. He had a feeling his physiological responses were a symptom of a much larger problem.

"Then why are we going out with _other people_?" He gestured toward the back of the flat and added, "Why aren't we having sex in the bedroom? That's a more appropriate response to so-called exciting news."

"Because this is big news!"

"Is it."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't care for Violet's expression. It was morphing into something less excitable. It was taking on that menacing quality.

"We're celebrating me getting a part in a big budget movie. Not just the two of us. There are other people who care about my career as well."

"What do you mean 'as well?' As well as who… me? Because I don't."

A spark went out in Violet's eyes. Sherlock saw it, but he was on a roll now and he couldn't stop himself.

"This is the most lacklustre piece of news I've ever heard. You've won another part in a story-telling fabrication. And what does that give the world? Entertainment for the unintelligent majority. For what? So they can stare blankly at something for a few hours?"

Violet gaped at him, uncharacteristically unable to react. But he was telling the absolute truth, wasn't he? Imparting good information along with his _feelings._ And that was always a good thing, apparently.

"I don't understand how this even compares to what we were doing on the weekend," he continued over Violet's stunned silence. "Do you know what we've even done here? One of the biggest organised crime networks in the North has just lost their leader, thanks to us and our efforts. How can you even think your news about some make-believe fantasy will even raise a flicker of interest in me?"

"Sherlock." All the breath seemed to have left Violet's lungs. The excitement her eyes had previously held had been completely extinguished. Sherlock felt the tension in his own body. It radiated outwards, building a sort of wall around him. It felt comfortable and familiar. And welcome.

"You're a fucking arsehole," she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. "We'll celebrate without you." She turned and made for the stairs.

 _Celebrate_ , Sherlock thought derisively and turning from the door. She didn't look like a person who was about to celebrate. He sank into his chair and continued to glare toward the stairwell. _Celebrate._ Tears had welled up in her eyes, and the way she was carrying herself just screamed despair. There was nothing _celebratory_ in that entire package. Why… who did she even think—

Sherlock froze. The last few minutes of what had just happened replayed in his mind on fast forward.

This was _Violet_ he was analysing here. This was _Violet,_ the _woman he loved,_ whose spirits he had just crushed. Sherlock blinked as if he'd just come out of a trance. He'd just defaulted to his worst possible persona. It was as if someone had flicked a switch.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ He was in trouble now _._

-oOo-


	44. Hold Yourself to a Higher Standard

**C** **hapter 4** **3 – Hold Yourself to a Higher Standard**

So things were not good on the relationship front, Violet guessed as she splashed cold water onto her face. She'd woken up in her bed, completely naked. Her bed. Upstairs. Not in the bed she shared with Sherlock downstairs.

Naturally, she couldn't remember a thing about how the night had panned out. Her throbbing head told her why that was.

The evening started off in good spirits; at least, that was the impression she gave everyone else about how she was faring. They were celebrating! But she had spent the entire night nursing the dull ache in her heart that came with knowing Sherlock hated everything about her career.

As the night wore on and she'd grown more intoxicated, she and Mandi had argued about whether or not Sherlock physically abuses her. The others had drifted off home, leaving Violet, Mandi and Priyal.

After Priyal had left, Violet tried explaining to Mandi that she sometimes assisted Sherlock on cases, and on this particular occasion, they had encountered a violent criminal. Mandi didn't believe a word of it. Violet's explanation was too long in coming. She should've told her best friend the truth in the first place.

But Violet couldn't enjoy the night properly with Sherlock's words echoing through her head. His disdain for something she absolutely loved clouded everything. She knew she had wiped herself out because of it, not because she had something to celebrate.

Before she decided to head downstairs for her morning coffee, dreading a confrontation with Sherlock, she looked about her room for evidence she had made the conscious decision to retire there for the night. Why would she climb two flights of stairs if she was so drunk? And where on earth were the clothes she had worn? Where was her handbag?

Violet silently dressed, also wondering why she wasn't feeling as nauseated as she ought to have been. And her hair smelled freshly shampooed and conditioned, so she must've had a shower before going to bed.

She drew in a steadying breath, then headed downstairs. There was no sign of Sherlock except for a note on the fridge that read:

 _Mandi rang to say she has your phone. She'll drop it off after she finishes work this afternoon._

Disappointment drizzled through her with the absence of parting words on Sherlock's note. No _SH,_ or an attempt by him to be funny and sweet with an abundance of X's. Just his hasty scrawl. The bare minimum.

The flat was eerily quiet. She knew Sherlock wasn't home. Resigned to her own company, she settled into her armchair with a cup of coffee. Tucking her legs underneath, she cupped the mug between both hands and closed her eyes for a few seconds. Her head continued to throb. How much did she consume last night? She remembered the shots. She should've been feeling far, far worse, though. She was only slightly hungover.

When Violet opened her eyes again, she spied her bag and coat draped over the coffee table. Relief surged through her that they had made it home with her.

Violet yawned widely, then decided to lie in bed and read for a while. Since the Jayle Anglesee books she had purchased were on her side table in Sherlock's bedroom, she retired there. She noted that Sherlock—or Mrs Hudson—had put fresh sheets on the bed. When had that been done?

Violet stretched out on top of the covers and began reading. Before too long, she was fast asleep with her book open on the bed and turned faced down beside her.

"Woo hoo. Violet."

Violet emerged from her light sleep to Mrs Hudson rapping lightly on the open bedroom door. She frowned, and peered through half-slitted eyes at the landlady.

"You have a visitor," Mrs Hudson said. "Your friend."

"Mandi?" Violet asked, pulling herself into an upright position. Her limbs felt like lead. Mrs Hudson didn't look at all impressed with her.

"The redhead," the landlady added. "I can tell her you're sleeping if you like."

"No, that's fine. Tell her to come in."

Mrs Hudson's lips drew into a thin line. "In here?"

'Yes. It's fine."

Violet raked her fingers through her hair and turned to look at the digital clock. Late afternoon sleeps were always disorienting and the worst to wake up from.

"Hiya!" Manda said, tentatively poking her head through the doorway. "All right, Vi?"

"I feel like crap."

"And you look it."

Violet desperately wanted to know what had happened last night after she returned home, but Mandi wasn't the person to speak to, she realised. Her friend could only tell her that they shared a cab and Mandi ensured Violet entered 221 safely.

"Is this… _his_ room?" Mandi asked, her eyes taking in her immediate surroundings. She wrinkled her nose a little.

Violet sighed out a "Yes," before climbing out of bed. Clearly her best friend still harboured ill thoughts about Sherlock.

"Tea?" she asked Mandi, who then hummed in reply. The redhead distractedly approached the shelf holding Sherlock's collectibles in the far corner of the room.

"I mean, no," Mandi added. "This is a bit like a museum, isn't it?"

Violet shook her head and left for the kitchen, assuming Mandi would follow her.

"Does he like everything to be left perfectly in place?" Mandi asked upon entering the kitchen.

Violet flicked on the kettle.

"Not really." She turned to face Mandi. "Why can't you stay for a cuppa?"

Mandi reminded Violet about a beauty product demonstration at her friend Zoe's place tonight. Mandi was thinking about going into business. It was one of those networking, self-employment opportunities. Violet had promised to attend weeks ago and they had discussed it last night. This was the last thing Violet needed right now. Another night out with people she barely knew. But Mandi said she'd told several people Violet Hunter was attending, and Zoe, the beauty consultant, was excited that the soap star may volunteer to be her demo model.

Mandi was counting on Violet. The actress already felt guilty about making her closest friend go out celebrating with her mid-week. This was the least she could do in return.

With promises to see her later, she thanked Mandi for returning her phone and gave her a hug goodbye.

Violet settled into her armchair once more, cup of tea in hand. She navigated through to the messages on her phone. It looked like she and Sherlock didn't exchange any messages last night. And the call log revealed she hadn't been in touch with him at all.

There was something else about Sherlock that drew an uncomfortable churning in her gut. Not just his attitude toward her career. Something else.

Sherlock and sex.

Violet let the evening's events wash over her, allowing random memories to drift to the surface of her mind.

That was it! Something Mandi had said last night. She had found a website that invited women to tell their stories about their sexual encounters with Sherlock Holmes. Violet remembered laughing about it and wanting to see for herself, but Mandi couldn't find it when she went to search through the web browser on her phone.

Violet immediately hopped up from her armchair and took her tea over to Sherlock's laptop sitting on the living room table. She sipped her tea as she waited for it to start up.

She had always wondered about his Thursday night outings for the purposes of casual sex, ever since the conversation they'd had in a pub on the first night she'd kissed him, but it was a delicate subject to broach with him. He hated talking about his past, sexual history or otherwise.

Violet found nothing after googling "Sherlock Holmes and sex." There was only one vague reference—a comment on an article written early after their relationship was made public at the TELSAs. Someone had facetiously asked if Sherlock Holmes even knew how to have sex. But there was no website dedicated to sharing his bedroom antics. The poor man, she suddenly thought. Even though she herself wanted to know the details, she'd hate to find them all over the internet. Violet wasn't interested in the details about the acts themselves; she was curious about his skill in assuming different identities to fool women into going to bed with him.

A person's sexual experiences were extremely personal. She hoped Mandi was mistaken about the site.

The front door slamming shut below and swift footsteps on the staircase caused Violet to jolt in her seat. She quickly closed the browser window and the lid of Sherlock's laptop. Grabbing her tea, she hastened back to her armchair.

If that was Sherlock—and all sounds indicated it most likely was—then she was going to come off looking extremely guilty.

Violet closed her eyes and drew in a couple of deep, steadying breaths, hoping to recompose herself. She opened her eyes again just as Sherlock strode into the living room. He looked a bit surprised to see her seated where she was.

"I'm not staying long," he said, averting his eyes as he made his way across the living room. He stopped by the shelves behind his chair. "Just picking up something."

Violet didn't know what to say. Were they fighting? Not speaking? Did they even interact when she came home last night?

She watched as Sherlock retrieved a book on poisons from the top shelf. She was then surprised to see it wasn't a book. It was a box. He extracted two vials from it, each containing a dark liquid. Sherlock held both vials up to the light and murmured, "I've forgotten which is which."

He pocketed the vials, adding, "Doesn't matter," and returned the book box to the shelf.

"Sherlock," Violet said.

He didn't look up or even acknowledge she had spoken. She waited another second or two, anxiety causing her chest to tighten as Sherlock retrieved his phone from his coat pocket.

This was Poland all over again. He was just going to leave her and not say anything. Her eyes stung and she could feel a lump forming in her throat.

"Molly," Sherlock murmured. He tapped away at his phone and slowly made his way across the living room toward the door.

"Sherlock." Louder this time. He glanced up finally.

The look in his eyes… Violet couldn't immediately interpret it. It wasn't indifference or coldness. There was a faint flicker of hurt there, like it physically pained him to meet her gaze.

"Shouldn't we talk?" she asked, the tremble in her voice betraying her.

"I have to get back," he said. "We're testing something in the lab. Poisons and antidotes."

He sounded polite, as if she was a stranger. He turned from her, still distracted by his phone.

"Please."

He stopped this time and slowly, reluctantly, made eye contact. There was a slight furrow in his brow.

"I can't stay long."

"Did we even talk last night?" Violet blurted out.

Sherlock seemed to visibly deflate.

"Of course you don't remember," he muttered defeatedly.

"I'm sorry."

His expression hardened just a little.

"Save your apologies for Mrs Hudson."

Violet's insides twisted. Mrs Hudson? What interaction did she have with their landlady?

"I don't—"

"No, you don't remember," he said, still talking in a controlled way, as if he didn't want his emotions to seep through. But he didn't sound cold or angry like he did yesterday. "She found you asleep at the bottom of the stairs."

Violet gave an imperceptible intake of breath. Her skin began to prickle.

"She came upstairs to fetch me," Sherlock continued. "She was quite upset. But you woke and I half-carried you up. You were… hurling abuse at both of us."

Violet dropped her gaze, a familiar shame and embarrassment now coursing through her. Sherlock looked down at his phone and fiddled with it in his hand.

"I don't remember anything," Violet said quietly.

"Well, it was… quite unpleasant."

"Is that why you put me in my bed?"

Sherlock locked eyes with her again, but didn't respond straight away. It was as if he was contemplating his answer.

"No, I took you to… our bed," he said. "But you…" He paused, his jaw jutting out momentarily. "You were ill." Sherlock blinked several times and had to look away. He hastily added, "I had to put us both in the shower. It took ages to…" He inhaled deeply, then finished with, "Anyway, I took you upstairs to sleep while I cleaned up the bedroom… and the bathroom."

Violet's eyes began to sting and she redirected her gaze to the pile of magazines by the door behind Sherlock. A coldness gripped her heart.

"Your clothes are probably in the dryer by now. So perhaps if you see Mrs Hudson later, you should offer your apologies."

Violet nodded imperceptibly, at a loss for words. What could she say in her defence?

"I have to go," Sherlock said. "Hours of lab time wasted, otherwise." He didn't look at her again as he crossed the threshold. "Don't wait up," he called back.

The lump in Violet's throat grew bigger until she thought she wouldn't be able to breathe. Finally, she shuddered out a breath, and then the deep, wracking sobs came.

She was a waste of space. Why hadn't Sherlock yelled at her? She expected such a reaction. This wasn't an unfamiliar situation in which she had found herself. Jake would tell her off the next morning. She had no sense of decorum or self-control then. Why was she acting like that now?

Sherlock wasn't angry. She'd quite clearly vomited in his bed, over him and herself. He'd cleaned it all up. He'd… shampooed her hair.

She'd been verbally abusive to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson! Their sweet, kind landlady. How could she!

Violet brought her knees up and bowed her head. _Save your apologies for Mrs Hudson._ As a twenty-five-year-old _,_ she should know better by now. She should've learnt from her past mistakes.

Violet wiped at her eyes and sniffed. While she was feeling sorry for herself, her phone had buzzed with a text. Her heart ached for a message from Sherlock.

It was Mandi. Her friend suggested Violet come along tonight sans makeup so it would be easier for the beauty consultant to apply her products to Violet's clear complexion.

 _For fuck's sake._

Violet angrily typed a reply.

 _What about my neck._

Mandi didn't respond immediately, but when she did, she simply advised Violet to wear a scarf.

She had to do this and she had to sort out things with Sherlock later. He wouldn't be home til late anyway.

Violet had another shower and took the time to style her hair into a casual up-do to go with her natural look. She still applied foundation and concealer to her neck in case the scarf came off at some stage.

Before leaving 221, Violet sought out her landlady in the flat below. Mrs Hudson was watching Connie Prince's makeover show.

"You're on your way out, I see," Mrs Hudson remarked, her disapproval evident in her tone. She turned back to the TV show.

"Yes," Violet replied, her insides churning. "But I wanted to see you first." She tentatively took a seat next to Mrs Hudson's armchair. "Mrs Hudson, I'm really sorry about last night," she gushed, "how I spoke to you, and… what I said." _Whatever that was._

Her landlady drew her lips together and thankfully, turned her attention from the telly.

"I may treat Sherlock like a son," she said, "and I don't see anything wrong with that. And I don't always spoil him or take his side. I give him what for and I don't let him get away with murder."

Violet opened and closed her mouth. What had she said to Mrs Hudson?

"And yes, I never had any children of my own. It was too late by the time I found out about Frank. I don't think it's a bad thing that I've adopted Sherlock and John. Those boys mean everything to me."

 _Good God. What had she said to Mrs Hudson?_

"And they're very lucky to have you," Violet hastily remarked.

"But Sherlock's a good man," her landlady went on. "And he does care for you."

"Yes… I know." Violet's chest tightened.

"And it was very unfair of you to compare him to your previous boyfriends. No man likes to hear himself compared to others."

 _Oh, God. What did I say?_

"Just because Sherlock doesn't like watching movies, it doesn't mean he doesn't care about your job. And saying he should be more like… that Danny fellow…"

Violet's heart sank. Is that what she said?

"I don't think I really meant it…" Violet offered weakly.

"And the language!" Mrs Hudson added.

"I'm really sorry."

Mrs Hudson turned back to Connie Prince.

"Perhaps you should watch how much you drink in future," she said. And her words appeared final, signalling the end of the conversation.

Violet stood, her heart hammering in her chest.

"I won't be out long," she said weakly. "Just a makeup demo. I should be home before Sherlock."

Mrs Hudson hummed vaguely in acknowledgement, so Violet bid her a good night and left her to her TV show.

The apology did nothing to improve her mood. The makeup demonstration went just as Violet thought it would. She put on a good show of being a sociable small-time celebrity. Luckily one of the other young ladies volunteered to be the guinea pig. Violet felt Mandi glare at her. Violet was cheerful and friendly to the small gathering of women, and she even spent over a hundred pounds on products she didn't need.

She just wanted to get home. And after Mandi found her in the kitchen washing the dishes that the nibbles had been served on, her friend finally relieved Violet of her obligatory duties.

The flat was empty. Cold, lifeless. Sherlock had told her not to wait up for him, and that usually meant he wouldn't be home until sometime after midnight. She tried to stay up, but reading only made her eyes heavier.

They would have to talk in the morning. With a resigned sigh she closed her eyes and pulled the quilt up around her. As a heavy sleep began to drag her under, her phone rang. Violet was instantly awake. She sat up and grabbed at the handset. Her whole body sagged when she saw the caller was Mandi.

"What?" she said by way of a greeting.

"You know, I didn't want to say this at the demo," Mandi began, clearly unaffected by Violet's way of answering the phone. "Because I didn't want to upset you. But I think we need some sort of intervention."

Violet furrowed her brow. Was Mandi joking? Did she even know what that word meant?

"Mandi, firstly, I think if you're going to hold an intervention, you're not supposed tell the person beforehand. And secondly, you drink just as much as I do."

"Wha—? No! It's not about drinking. For fuck's sake. Why's that…? No. It's about you staying in an abusive relationship."

Violet couldn't believe what she was hearing. Had her explanations the night before fallen on deaf ears?

"Mandi," she said resignedly.

"I was talking to Priyal," her friend went on. "And she told me about the week you showed up on set with bruises on your face. _On your face_ , for fuck's sake! The man doesn't even care."

"Mandi."

"You were on national telly, and he doesn't even care who sees!"

"It wasn't Sherlock!"

"Yeah, I know about the kickboxing cover story. Vi, we all love you. You know that, don't you?"

Violet closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath.

"Mandi, listen to me very carefully."

"If you need somewhere to stay—"

"Just listen!"

Thankfully Mandi went silent. Violet took that moment to recompose herself. She drew her knees up and wrapped an arm around them.

"I help Sherlock on some of his cases. Most of the time, they're nothing more than pleasant outings and the occasional interview with someone. But this time, he was investigating an organised crime figure who's committed murders." Mandi still said nothing, so Violet continued. "Sebastian Moran. Look him up. He's been arrested in Manchester." Still silence. "The reason I couldn't tell you the truth before was because we were still working on the case. And anyway, Sherlock quite often doesn't want credit for solving cases for Scotland Yard."

"So who did it?"

Violet sighed. Mandi still sounded like she didn't quite believed her.

"Moran. I had an argument with him in Kabuki's in Manchester." She heard Mandi's sharp intake of breath, then added, "And the time before that, when I was still on _Regency Road_ , it was Jake."

"Jake? Our Jake?"

"Yes. Remember he had dubious businesses up there? He's connected to Moran, and he took objection to Sherlock working on the case. They used me to get to Sherlock. He was so upset."

Mandi had no response to this, so Violet added, "And you can't tell anybody. This was a once-off case. And I was perfectly placed…" Violet smiled inwardly at repeating a phrase Sherlock quite often used. "… to help with the case since I knew Jake and the kind of business he conducted in Manchester."

"Oh, Vi."

Violet reassured Mandi that she wouldn't help Sherlock on dangerous cases anymore, and besides, she was going to be busy with her acting career. This seemed to distract Mandi once more, because the redhead was again gushing about Violet getting to work with Timothy Killaney and the main hero of the _Anuket's Children_ franchise, the Australian actor Joseph Irkhardt.

Violet thanked her friend for looking out for her, but her stomach still clenched when Mandi remarked that Sherlock was a bit rude sometimes.

"He's just busy working out things, solving puzzles," Violet replied. "He needs his peace and solitude. Even I annoy him at times." She immediately regretted her last words. She was supposed to be painting Sherlock in a good light!

Violet eventually ended her call with Mandi, after they'd changed the subject several times, ending on Mandi's own dating woes.

As she slid deeper underneath the covers, she hoped Sherlock would return home, curl around her, and they could whisper their apologies to each other before making love. Somehow, she didn't think it would be that simple.

-oOo-

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks to _thedragonaunt_ , _magentacr_ , _Gwilwillith_ and _GraceMonroe_ for your lovely comments!


	45. Boring Your Move

**C** **hapter 4** **4 – Boring. Your Move.**

Sherlock watched as Violet rearranged her jacket, propping it up between her shoulder and the window. As the train lurched around a bend with silver rain droplets clutching for dear life onto the windows, Sherlock's heart twinged. On journeys such as these, Violet would normally lean into him, closing her eyes and sighing, her breath fluttering against his neck. This morning, they sat on opposite sides of the tiny table in the first class carriage, the air between them still bristling with unresolved issues.

When he had arrived home from the lab in the early hours, Sherlock had longed to wake Violet, but she looked so peaceful. A burden still weighed heavily on his heart. To wake her would mean they'd have to talk, and Sherlock didn't quite know how to address what was bothering him, or even if he should mention anything. Why weren't there protocols written for these sorts of things?

He decided to let Violet sleep for a little bit longer. It was only four o'clock in the morning, anyway.

Staring blankly at the computer screen as he sat in his armchair in the early hours did nothing to alleviate Sherlock's aching heart. He could've apologised to Violet—rang her the second he realised he'd been brutal with his information sharing about the entertainment industry the evening before. But he hadn't. He stubbornly decided he shouldn't have to pretend to like something, to tolerate idiots for an evening, just to show Violet his support for her ridiculous career. He'd helped her on numerous occasions already, for Christ's sake—directing her in the audition for the mini-series, and helping her with athletic activities for the stupid big budget movie audition reel. And he had attended the industry self-congratulatory award ceremony. What more did she want from him?

With a sinking heart he knew what she wanted.

 _You're a f-fucking cunt,_ she slurred as he half-carried her up the stairs that night. And then she had referred to Nick and Jake in the same manner. To be classed as the same type of boyfriend as those idiots!

 _Oh, dear,_ Mrs Hudson had said, as she followed behind, carrying Violet's bag, coat and heels upstairs.

 _Why can't you be more like Danny?_ Violet had added, effectively thrusting a knife deep into his heart. _He cares about my work._

Of course he does, Sherlock thought. The man's a sycophant.

But Sherlock wished Mrs Hudson hadn't been present to witness Violet in a particularly low moment, and worse, to be the recipient of Violet's hateful comments after his landlady tried to stick up for Sherlock.

 _Why do you have to take his side?_ Violet had said to Mrs Hudson over Sherlock's shoulder as he half-dragged her into the living room. As Violet unleashed a tirade of abuse toward the older woman, Sherlock dropped her onto the sofa. He ordered Violet not to say another word and then turned to Mrs Hudson, his face full of apology.

"It's all right love," Mrs Hudson had said to him, rubbing his arm affectionately. "Looks like you have your hands full," she added in a whisper, as if to reassure him she didn't need him to apologise to her on behalf of Violet, on top of what he already had to deal with. The woman was a saint. She put up with more than her fair share with whatever Sherlock brought into the Baker Street flat: odd clients, the criminal classes, his homeless network representatives, body parts from the mortuary, and now his inebriated and verbally abusive girlfriend.

After Mrs Hudson had left him to it, and Violet had slumped sideways along the sofa, Sherlock knew he couldn't be judgemental about his girlfriend's intoxication. She was simply celebrating, wasn't she? That's what these _young people_ did. And the last thing Sherlock had wanted to be was an annoying git, standing in pompous judgement of someone's moment of weakness and substance over-use.

He had vague recollections of Mycroft fetching him from some doss house or finding him curled up on the back doorstep because he'd lost his keys at some stage. He remembered insulting Mycroft about his lack of a social life, swearing at him for being the favourite son, criticising everything about his elder sibling from his pinstripes to his polished brogues. And Mycroft just took it grimly. Until the next day, that is.

But in Baker Street the next morning, Sherlock couldn't face seeing Violet. The comment about Dan still ran through his head. He spent far too long at Bart's that night just to avoid talking to her about it.

Molly was particularly insightful, more than he often gave her credit for.

"Trouble at home?" she said, after hours of testing both the poison and the antidote.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because this is the same poison you tested a couple of years ago after you'd had an argument with John."

Sherlock didn't confirm or deny Molly's deduction. He silently brooded over the fact that he was transparent and predictable.

The news about Jake made that evening's drama take a backseat. He'd heard about it before Violet did, thanks to Mycroft ringing him at six o'clock that morning, while he sat in his armchair because he hadn't wanted to join Violet in bed.

But as Sherlock listened to Mycroft's news, his insides churned once more. He ended the call and strode back to the bedroom. Should he wake her now?

Violet had gravitated toward the middle of the bed, her arms outstretched as if she'd been reaching for him. His heart skipped a beat. He had to deliver bad news to her, and Christ only knew how she was going to react.

Sherlock sank into the bed beside her, then stretched out, resting his head on the pillow. He was now fully awake, despite not actually sleeping for the entire night. His mind tried to work out what this could mean for the Sebastian Moran case. Surely nothing. Nothing at all, really.

Half an a hour went by with Sherlock occupied by mental meanderings. Then Violet's phone buzzed with a message. Sherlock immediately sat up. Violet hadn't stirred.

He left his side of the bed and retrieved Violet's phone. He sighed deeply as he read the message. It was from Dan.

 _Ring me ASAP. Urgent._

Sherlock sat on the bed by Violet's side. She stirred lightly, and rolled onto her back. It was obvious why Dan had phoned her.

He studied Violet's soft features, then reached out a hand and moved a strand of hair away from her face. Bending low, he kissed her brow, then drew back in time to see her frown.

"Violet," he said in a voice just above a whisper.

She stirred, eyes fluttering open, then her frown deepened. She seemed to be searching his eyes as she had done the night before, obviously wondering what his interaction with her was going to be like.

"I've got bad news," he said, and he waited until her lips parted, which meant she had heard him and was searching for the right question. "Jake's in hospital," he went on. "He's been beaten within an inch of his life. He's alive… but…"

"What?" she croaked.

Sherlock held up her phone.

"You've got a message to ring Dan. He might have more information."

Sherlock handed Violet her phone. As she straightened up, he rose from the bed and cleared his throat; his arms hung uselessly by his sides. He was unsure of his next move. Violet sat motionless, just staring at her phone's screen.

"Ring Dan," he said, feeling the need to prompt her. "I'll put the kettle on."

Without waiting for a response from her, Sherlock left the bedroom to give her the privacy he felt she needed. When she finally emerged and said she was going to have a shower, Sherlock offered to accompany her to Manchester. She had that purposeful look about her. She politely accepted his offer, without even asking how he knew she was intending to go.

Sherlock watched Violet irately try to get comfortable in her seat across from him. Jake had asked to see her. Sherlock deduced multiple meanings behind the man's request. He fidgeted with his phone as Violet closed her eyes and leant into the window.

Her jacket annoyed him. Why didn't she roll it up? It would then provide the perfect support for her neck. Instead, it was just bunched up, and every time she moved slightly a bit of it would slip down between her arm and the wall of the carriage. Soon she would have to start again with making herself comfortable.

Finally, he couldn't stand the silence any longer.

"Why does he want to see you?" he asked, startling Violet awake. She wasn't really sleeping anyway. Creases immediately appeared in her brow.

"What?"

"Why did Jake ask to see you? It's a curious thing."

"No, it's not," she replied. She straightened up. The jacket fell onto the seat and Violet tutted. "He nearly died. He's probably feeling sentimental." She grabbed at her jacket and started bunching it up again.

"No. I don't think that's it."

The uncooperative jacket drew their attention once more. Why was it such a difficult thing to work out?

"Sit next to me," Sherlock said finally. "You'll be more comfortable."

"I want the window seat," Violet snapped. She closed her eyes and leant into the jacket once more, as if to emphasise the fact that she was more comfortable where she was, thank you very much.

"He can't want to propose to you again," Sherlock said. He ignored Violet's sigh. "He's not that stupid, is he?"

"Just leave it, Sherlock," she muttered without opening her eyes.

Sherlock stared out of the window. He was still avoiding having to talk about their issues—his attitude toward her work, and her drunken comments. Suddenly an idea struck him, one that had nothing to do with entertainment industry celebrations and fucking boyfriend-wannabes called Dan.

He slapped his hand onto the table, jolting Violet awake again.

"That's why he wants to see you!"

"Christ, Sherlock!" Violet hissed. She looked about her to check that curious minds weren't tuning in.

Sherlock leant forward, his elbows resting onto the table, and spoke quickly, but at a confidential pitch.

"The kingpin of Manchester's organised crime set has been dethroned," he said. "Which leaves a vacant position. Jake Venucci is most likely next in line. _That's_ why he wants to see you."

"Why? What do I have to do with anything?"

"He has more dirt on Moran that he wants to pass onto you and therefore me. If Moran's people think Jake betrayed him—most likely, since your presence and the absence of Jake last weekend heralded the man's arrest—then he'd want to make sure they know where he lies in the hierarchy. He'd want to be at the top. I bet he holds information that will ensure Moran's conviction. He'll know where the bodies are buried. You can take that literally or metaphorically. Jake wants to make sure his place on the throne is secure for a long time to come."

"No," Violet said, frowning. "He just wants to see me. Stop reading things into this."

Violet almost sounded hurt on hearing there could be another reason why Jake requested her presence other than his obsessive love for her. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, but she avoided his gaze and turned her attention to the view out of the window.

Silently fuming that his theory wasn't met without any kind of enthusiasm on Violet's part, Sherlock kept himself busy on his phone, reminding himself about Manchester gangs and their territories. Violet only spoke to him once, to tell him Danny would meet them at the station. Sherlock exhaled noisily, then looked down at his phone once more.

It didn't take long for Jake's offsider to find them once the train had arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station and they had disembarked. But this time, Dan didn't offer his hand for Sherlock to shake when Violet asked him, "You remember Sherlock, don't you?"

Dan gave a vague nod in Sherlock's direction then turned all his attention to Violet.

"I can't get you in right now," he said to Violet. "They'll only let family in, and there's a lot of press hanging about."

"Oh," Violet replied. She looked puzzled, as if she couldn't understand her lack of entitlement.

"But I can get you in after hours, if you can wait around a bit longer."

"Of course," Violet said, a little too swiftly and keenly for Sherlock's liking.

"11pm?" Dan asked. "I'll give you a call and pick you up from your hotel, if you like."

Dan avoided looking at Sherlock the entire time. Violet gave the young man a hug goodbye and Dan left without acknowledging Sherlock again. Sherlock shot daggers at the man's retreating form.

"I guess we should get a hotel room," Violet replied. She was slightly flushed, as if a bit embarrassed. Well, why wouldn't she be? The man, to whose standards Sherlock was supposed to aspire, had been a bit rude.

Sherlock whipped out his phone and immediately navigated to the list of five star hotels in the near vicinity. If they were going to stay a moment longer in this hell hole, they may as well do so in style.

The conversation between them remained stilted; words only passed between them when absolutely necessary. Sherlock booked a hotel suite at The Pendlebury on Irwell, then Violet suggested they have lunch while they waited for their check-in time.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said. "I never eat—"

"It's a good thing you're not on a case," Violet said, and she bid the cab driver to take them to the city centre. They found a café, where Violet ate a quiche and Sherlock pushed a chicken salad around on his plate.

By the time they'd finished, it was time to check into their hotel. Before they headed up to their room, Sherlock requested reception to call them the moment their luggage arrived. Violet had already told him she didn't like to think what the reception staff would speculate as to why they needed to book a room within hours of arriving with no luggage in tow.

Violet looked about the luxury suite as if she didn't know what to do with it. On any other occasion, he imagined she would've thrown herself onto the king-size bed, run her hand over the sheets and beg Sherlock to join her. Or she'd excitedly insist Sherlock run her a bath in the ornate corner bathtub. Her over-enthusiasm and wide-eyed innocence regarding the opulence of the room may once have annoyed him. Today he longed for even a spark of her usual self.

"I think I'm going to see Riley and Emily," Violet said as she stared unseeing at a tall floor lamp.

Sherlock had already removed his jacket and was hanging it up in the closet.

"Sorry?" he said.

"I didn't get to see them the last time we were here, and I'd really like to know how they are."

Violet moved toward Sherlock, and he was relieved to see her attempting to soften her expression.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"No…" Sherlock cleared his throat. It felt constricted. This careful navigating around each other was beginning to stress him. "No," he tried again. "We have a long wait before eleven, so I don't see why not."

"Okay, then," she said, a forced smile appearing on her face. She narrowed the gap between them and planted a quick kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I won't be long," she said, making her way toward the door. "Although…" She stopped and turned back to him. "I might do some shopping afterwards. Buy a dress. Something nice. Perhaps we can have dinner downstairs? It's an award-winning restaurant."

Sherlock gave a half-hearted nod.

"It's hard to get into," Violet continued. "Except if you're a guest here. I'll make a booking on my way down. How does seven o'clock sound?"

"Ah… good."

Violet's smile stretched across her face, but Sherlock knew it was fake. She felt as flat as he did. His eyes dropped to her neck just before she turned from him. Her bruises that were now an odd mix of green and yellow were easily concealed with foundation.

After Violet had left the room, Sherlock's heart began hammering in his chest. He eyed his jacket, then reached for it and pulled it from the hanger. He hadn't been there that night, but both Violet and John had reassured Sherlock that Violet had been fine. But the extent of bruising on Violet's neck told him otherwise. He hadn't been there, and his absence had caused this to happen.

Slipping his jacket back on, Sherlock decided he would like to pay a visit to a certain notorious gangster located in HMP Manchester.

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

As it's my last update before Christmas, I'd just like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas! Hope it's a lovely, festive one for you all! Don't forget to wear the antlers!

elbafo

Xx


	46. Dinner, With Wine and Sitting

**C** **hapter 4** **5 – Dinner, With Wine and Sitting**

"And at that pressure and on your carotid arteries," Sherlock said, "after a mere ten seconds, you would lose consciousness. Thank you, Mr Creedy."

Sherlock patiently watched as his assistant released Sebastian Moran from his strangulation hold. The Mancunian gangster sank to his knees, rasping out several coughs and gasping for air.

"Three times the pressure and your trachea would be completely closed off," Sherlock added. The Consulting Detective squatted down onto his haunches as Moran, whose face had turned scarlet, continued to cough and splutter. "Brain death will occur within four to five minutes." He lowered his voice and continued. "And that, Mr Moran, is what it feels like to be strangled by someone who _is_ your own size and weight." Sherlock gestured to the man standing beside him and said, "Mr Creedy here—and that isn't his real name, by the way—he has an older brother currently residing in Wandsworth, where I believe you are about to be transferred." Sherlock turned to the guard standing by the door. "Is that right, Mr Finch?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes. To await trial in the Crown Court at Southwark."

Sherlock turned back to Moran and said, confidentially, "Mr Finch is surprisingly knowledgeable about these things." He straightened up once more and added, "Wandsworth prison offers education and training, so Mr Creedy's brother will continue our lesson there. He's half a foot taller and considerably heavier, by the way, so he'll demonstrate what it's like to be picked on by someone who's _not_ your own size."

Moran looked up at Sherlock, his eyes hooded and bloodshot. Upon his shaven head, Sherlock could see the man's throbbing pulse.

"Fuh… cun…" Moran said, his voice hoarse and his chest heaving.

Sherlock took a step away from the organised crime boss.

"Mr Creedy, would you assist Mr Moran to his feet please."

Sherlock's expression lost all humour as the hardened lifer half-dragged Sebastian Moran to a standing position.

"You will be made to account for your crimes in a court of law," Sherlock said. "Our society has rules and regulations in place to punish the guilty and seek justice for victims, while affording you the right to a fair trial." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and moved closer to Moran. He lowered his voice once more and added, "But when you assault someone I care about, all that goes out of the window, I'm afraid."

Moran made a choking noise, before spluttering, "Not the end… of this."

"No, it's not the end," Sherlock said, his expression brightening. "I'll be seeing you again in London." After a quick, broad smile to Moran, the detective turned on his heels, prompting Mr Finch to open the door for him. As he strode through the open doorway to the passageway beyond, Sherlock called out, "Good day, gentlemen!"

-o-

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table before checking his phone one more time. Violet had texted him earlier, requesting him to meet her at the hotel's riverside restaurant at seven. He assumed she would need to return to the hotel room to change after visiting her friends, so it was odd that she requested he meet her there instead of in their room.

He should've been worried about how long she'd been away, particularly after she intended visiting the council estate around Ordsall. Sherlock knew of the area from his study of Manchester gangs and the reports he'd received when liaising with the Greater Manchester Police a month earlier. He should've insisted on accompanying her, but she seemed to be existing in another world, one in which he didn't belong.

When Violet appeared in the doorway to the restaurant, Sherlock could tell at a glance exactly where she had spent her time. She'd told him she would go shopping for a dress after her visit so she would feel comfortable fine-dining in public. But that didn't account for the hours between the shops closing to the time of their dinner reservation.

The maitre d' escorted Violet across the restaurant and around the pillar that gave their table some privacy. Sherlock rose from his seat, as expected of him. He greeted Violet with a soft kiss on her cheek and waited until she sat down before he took his seat again. He knew how she would want him to behave in a public place.

"They kept the salon open for me. Isn't that nice of them?" Violet gushed. Her chirpy mood was obviously fake. Her hand went immediately to her newly darkened tresses. Her hair colour seemed to change as often as her moods, but Sherlock cared little for what shade of brown or blonde her hair became. What was more important was the reason Violet felt compelled to change it at all.

"Why?" was all he managed to ask.

The waitress was hovering with a drink menu, which she nervously placed in front of the pair. Understandably, Violet didn't answer him.

At a request for their drinks order, Sherlock was horrified when Violet ordered Prosecco for them both—a bottle of the stuff. Was she still trying to get him to celebrate her recent audition win with her?

"So," Violet said, leaning forward onto her elbows after the waitress had left. "What did you get up to today?"

Sherlock resented the casualness and faux-amiable mood she was exuding. He hadn't failed to see the way Violet was shielding one hand behind her other arm.

"I visited Sebastian Moran in prison," he replied, "and had somebody choke him for me in revenge for his assault on you."

"That's not funny, Sherlock."

"I didn't say it was funny."

Violet furrowed her brow at him. The first genuine expression she had worn since she'd initially walked in.

"What's with you?" she asked.

"What happened to your hand?"

Violet straightened up. An involuntary movement and one that told Sherlock she was about to act defensively.

"Nothing."

"Show me."

Sherlock outstretched his own hand and waited for Violet to place hers in his. Instead, she met his gaze and clenched her jaw in defiance.

"Violet."

Her eyes began to glisten, and if she hadn't been wearing foundation, Sherlock knew the tip of her nose would start to turn pink—a sure sign she was getting upset.

Violet placed her hand in his, displaying for him a row of perfectly bruised knuckles. It felt like a punch in the gut to Sherlock. He hadn't been expecting that. Or had he?

"Who or what did you punch?" he asked reluctantly as Violet pulled her hand away again.

"A drug dealing landlord."

"What drug dealing landlord?"

"The one who was fucking my friend. Em's landlord. He… he sometimes demands sex when she can't pay for a hit."

It took a moment for this information to sink in. _I tripped over when I was texting you and walking down the street,_ would be a more predictably-Violet thing to say. _I was telling somebody a story about how I stuffed up an audition and I was gesturing wildly and hit a pole with my hand._ That's what he thought she was going to tell him; not this. Is this what Manchester brought out in her?

Sherlock kept his thoughts to himself and his emotions under lock and key.

"So why did you punch him?" he asked.

"Because sometimes he doesn't give her the… drugs after… he…" Violet almost lost her composure. "I walked in on them. And it made me so mad."

"You walked in on them having sex?"

"Yes. Riley let me in and I asked where Em was. He just waved a hand toward her bedroom. I didn't know…"

"And then you punched him? The landlord?"

"No. I hit him with a lamp first."

Sherlock leant back in his seat and folded his arms in front of him.

"A lamp," he repeated calmly.

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded and tried to visualise the encounter. No doubt, Violet Hunter would've let loose a few obscenities along the way.

"And then you punched him?"

"After he came at me. I mean, he swore, and sort of rolled off Em. She was out of it. I couldn't fucking believe it…" Violet leant forward, her voice low and intense. "He didn't even care what condition she was in."

"He came at you?" When Violet nodded, Sherlock tried to shake loose the imagery he had conjured up. "Was… was he naked?"

Violet looked horrified, then said, "No! He was still dressed. I guess he just made himself… accessible to her. He kind of rolled off the bed. I suppose he pulled up his jeans then and tucked himself in. I'm sorry, I didn't notice if his cock was hanging out before I punched him!"

Sherlock looked up in time to see the waitress stop halfway across the floor, an ice bucket in one hand and a bottle of Prosecco in the other. Her mouth was slightly agape, but she swiftly recomposed herself and continued approaching the table.

They both sat in silence as the waitress poured their drinks.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked.

"We haven't even opened the menus," Sherlock told her.

"Oh.. I'm sorry… Well, I don't suppose…" She turned her attention to Violet, and Sherlock was surprised to see a hint of excitement cross the waitress's face. "You see, you'll never guess what book I've been reading on my break."

"Oh dear God," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He knew a fan when he saw one.

" _Catherine Hilderness,_ " the woman gushed.

Violet's face split into a broad grin, but it didn't quite meet her eyes, Sherlock noted.

"That's wonderful," she said with false enthusiasm. "And what an amazing coincidence."

"D'you mind?" the waitress asked, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

"No, it's fine," Violet replied.

After the waitress had hurried away, Sherlock asked, "Do you mind what? What's fine?"

"She probably wants me to autograph her book."

"Why?"

Violet shrugged and dropped her gaze to her menu. A light flush had crossed her cheeks. Embarrassed about the attention? Or in a personal conflict about which persona to display: the ex-gangster girlfriend who punches drug dealing landlords or the petite small screen actress who was about to hit the big screen?

Sherlock watched as the waitress returned through the doors to the kitchen carrying her novel. He made no attempt to silence his heavy exhale when the novel was placed in front of Violet along with a pen. He saw Violet's smile falter, and he knew exactly what was going through her mind.

"How about we study the menus first," he said, reaching out and sliding the book away from Violet. "And by the time you return to take our order," he added, glancing up at the waitress, "Violet will have signed your book." He ended his statement with one of his broad, fake smiles.

"Yeah, of course," the waitress said, smiling nervously back at him. Her gaze dropped to the book before she hastened away.

Violet uncovered her right hand, which she had been hiding with her left.

"Thanks," she said, reaching for the book.

"I thought it preferable for her to think I'm a controlling arsehole rather than let her see your bruises and draw her own conclusions about that."

Violet didn't respond except to open the cover of the novel. Sherlock watched for a while as she wrote inside it, then he lost interest and opened his menu instead. What did he care if people thought he was an arsehole? Business as usual. But he had thought Violet would object to the label. Clearly she agreed this time. She had called him an arsehole herself the other night after he had demonstrated no enthusiasm for her news.

Violet eventually pushed the book aside and she, too, opened her menu. They sat in complete silence for what seemed like five minutes. The other patrons chatted and laughed and chose food and drinks and went to the bathroom or greeted friends around them.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock said, without looking up.

"What do you mean?"

He looked up at Violet over the top of their menus.

"After your confrontation with the landlord?"

"Yes. I called Danny, and he sorted it."

Violet's gaze dropped to her menu as Sherlock's insides twisted and churned. _Danny._

They didn't talk again for a while. Violet took four sips of her wine and Sherlock stared, unseeing, at the menu. Finally, he put it down and stated, "I'm not hungry."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Violet said in a low voice after dropping her own menu to the table. "You didn't even eat lunch. What have you eaten all day?"

"I stole a bread roll from the prison canteen."

Violet narrowed her eyes at Sherlock and frowned. She didn't compute, obviously.

"What?" she asked.

"From the prison canteen." Sherlock tutted then leant forward. "I entered and exited through the kitchen. Less paperwork that way."

Violet's half-open mouth told Sherlock she needed more oxygen in order to understand what he was saying, or more accurately, to recall what he had told her earlier.

"You really did go to the prison?"

"Yes."

"To see Sebastian Moran?"

"Of course. I just told you."

"I thought you were joking!"

The waitress returned. She had impeccable timing, Sherlock thought. He let her know this via a deep sigh and a bonus eye roll.

"Are we ready to order?" she asked.

"Not quite," Violet said, swiftly opening the menu again.

"I'll give you a few more minutes, then," the waitress said.

"And here's your novel," Violet added. "I hope you enjoy it."

The waitress cooed and gushed out a thank you. She proceeded to tell Violet that she thought she was perfect for the role of Catherine and all her friends thought so, too. And her uncle and aunty, who live in London, had seen Violet perform in _Kara's War._ In fact, their waitress friend felt at liberty to share each and every Violet Hunter-related thought or anecdote she had.

Sherlock listened in silence. He leant his elbow onto the table and bowed his head. He began kneading his brow with his fingertips. The President of the Violet Hunter Admiration Society continued on with her compliments. Violet was more interested in analysing Catherine Hilderness's struggles and triumphs. Sherlock wanted to slide underneath the table and go to sleep. He hadn't slept since the night before last. He hadn't slept because he'd been avoiding talking to Violet about his _feelings._ He supposed this dinner would be the perfect opportunity to talk about things like that. People did that didn't they? Organise contrived settings in order to talk about _stuff._

Best get it over with then.

Sherlock not-so-discreetly cleared his throat.

"Why did you have to be so rude?" Violet said after the waitress had left.

"Me? Rude? I'll tell you who's rude. That waitress, who's obviously the daughter or niece of the owner, that's who."

"How did you… No. D'you know what? I don't care."

"Because nobody's fired her! She must be related. I thought it was one of those rule thingies that you're not supposed to bother celebrities when they're dining. She clearly has no regard for the patrons of this restaurant and no idea of fine-dining service provision. We didn't even get to talk to a sommelier."

"A what?"

"Look, Violet, why are we even here? Why don't we go up to our room and order room service?"

"Because," Violet said, folding her arms in front of her and leaning forward. "We're here in Manchester, and I want it to look like we're doing something normal for a change."

"Other than visiting drug addicts and beating up their suppliers."

Violet's expression didn't falter. And it wasn't a good one to wear permanently either.

"And I thought… since you didn't…" She trailed off and sighed. She dropped her eyes to the menu while she recomposed herself.

Sherlock held his breath and made a mental note to count to five after Violet spoke next. He knew his tongue and the logic centre in his brain worked in sync, often bypassing the slower processing unit that needed to take _emotions_ into account.

"I still wanted to celebrate with you," she said.

"Celebrate what?"

"My God, Sherlock!" Her voice hitched toward the end. Dammit.

"You know my thoughts about that already." Why should they go through this again? He'd stated rather succinctly what the entertainment industry meant to him. Did Violet think sharing a bottle of wine was going to change all that?

"I know," she said. It was an almost imperceptible change, but Sherlock detected it. The slight drooping of her shoulders, the tension leaving her face. "But this is something I've achieved." Violet's eyes never left Sherlock's as she spoke. "Forget about the entertainment industry. This is my job. This is all I've ever wanted to do. And now I've reached a certain level of success. I've just accomplished something fairly significant. It's important to me. It would be _nice…"_ Sherlock was slightly alarmed that the word _nice_ was said with an edge of menace. Quite the contradiction. "… if you could recognise my achievements for once."

"And you've quite clearly forgotten how many times I've actually helped you with your _job._ "

"Then _say something nice!_ "

Her demand and the accompanying challenging glare did nothing to invite Sherlock to do as he was ordered.

"You can't, can you?" she said. "I don't know what I am to you. I've just walked in here with my hair and makeup professionally done… in a new dress… and you just… _never say anything_."

She was getting quite upset and struggling to remain composed. A ticking time bomb.

"Then why is my behaviour so upsetting to you," Sherlock snapped back, "if I never say anything? If I'm so predictable? You know me. You know I don't react to changes in your outward appearance unless I can make a deduction from it."

Violet tore her gaze away from Sherlock as if his words weren't worth listening to.

"So let me make a deduction," Sherlock said, leaning closer. "You knew I wouldn't react to your change in appearance, so clearly it wasn't all for me. There's nobody else dining with us, so you could you possibly want to impress, if not me?"

Violet's eyes snapped back to lock onto Sherlock's. She was daring him to say what was on his mind.

"You did it for Jake."

His words had more of an effect than he anticipated. Violet's eyes pooled with tears. There was disappointment embedded in there, too. Sherlock's logic centre ground to a halt and he could hear the manual ticking of his emotional core trying to keep up.

Violet grabbed her handbag and rose from her seat. Without saying anything, she turned from him and made a beeline toward the bathroom at the back of the restaurant.

The hum of the other patrons' conversations and the tinkling of glasses and cutlery continued unabated. The layout of the restaurant was conducive to keeping private conversations just that—private.

Nobody seemed to notice the stunning actress fleeing toward the bathroom because her bastard of a boyfriend couldn't say something nice. Nobody saw the Consulting Detective struggling to interpret the meaning behind the emotions that had leaked into his brain and pooled around his heart.

 _Danny._

 _Jake._

Why did they bother him so much? And how could she get upset that Sherlock hadn't reacted to her makeover and think nothing of telling him she had beaten up a drug dealing landlord after visiting her drug-addicted friends in a fucking housing estate? She accused him of being rude to the waitress for not being patient with the woman fawning all over Violet's skill at make-believe, but she hadn't thanked him for teaching Sebastian Moran a lesson. She was a walking contradiction.

Did she expect to return to their table and order starters? Talk to the waitress again about Catherine fucking Wilderness's struggles with her identity in an oppressive society? Sign her autograph on a napkin and then farewell Sherlock when she left to visit her ex-gangster boyfriend in hospital?

The air in the room suddenly pressed in on Sherlock. Laughter rose and fell around him. He stood up and patted his breast pocket for his cigarette packet.

He needed fresh air, and then he needed to smoke.

Nicotine. Cigarettes, perhaps three. And a walk along the river.

Sherlock couldn't stay in the restaurant a moment longer. He paid for the wine plus extra in case Violet opted to stay and eat. He couldn't see that happening, but it was no longer his concern. She could take the Prosecco and drink it in their hotel room for all he cared.

-oOo-

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Not a happy note to end the year on, I'm afraid! But happy times will come, I can assure you, and there's only two or three chapters to go. As it's my last update before the end of the year, **_Happy New Year!_** And I'll see you on the other side of Series 4… or episode one at least. But, no spoilers! I won't be posting anything spoilery about it in case some of you don't get to see it until later.

We all need to hold hands at this stage!

But thank you for supporting my writing in 2016. Here's hoping Series 4 is wonderfully inspirational to fanfic writing in 2017 and beyond.

Cheers!

elbafo


	47. What's Got Into the Criminal Classes?

**C** **hapter 4** **6 –** **What's Got Into the Criminal Classes?**

Violet scanned the hotel room mini-bar before her eyes dropped to her phone again. There was no point trying his number. He obviously didn't want to talk to her. He had turned his phone off.

Her heart wrenched in her chest. This was Poland all over again. The heightened panic she felt throughout her body would be dampened by a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. The small bottle from the mini-bar held almost two glasses. Surely that would do? The effects of the one glass of Prosecco she managed to down at dinner time had well and truly worn off.

Sherlock had left her without saying a word. Was he really upset about her hair? His erroneous deduction—quite laughable really—that she had done it for Jake, initially threw her. Since when did she do things for Jake?

She had wanted Sherlock to notice her change in hair colour. A darker shade now. She had been looking forward to reminding him about the words he'd spoken to her when they had just started dating and Violet had dyed her hair blonde for the play. _There's been an increase by about thirty percent of other people who are drawn to you now that your hair is blonde_ , he had said at the time. And he qualified his statement with, _Oh, it's not a compliment… it's just an observation._ She thought it funny. With that in mind, Violet went for a less eye-catching hue. She wanted to return to a state of relative anonymity when going about her business away from home, especially since the official announcement of her casting in _Anuket's Children: The Rise of the Five_ was going to be made on Monday. She had done it to reduce her chances of being recognised in the street. It was for herself, and for them.

But that wasn't all, was it? As Violet changed out of her dress into the casual clothes she'd worn on the train and scrubbed her face clear of makeup, she recalled the flicker of hurt that had crossed Sherlock's face when she mentioned Danny had sorted it. She'd called Danny after her violent encounter with Emily's landlord.

And of course, Sherlock didn't know he was her first choice when she had panicked about what she had done. She admitted to Sherlock that she'd hit that sleazy bastard with a lamp and had punched him. But she didn't tell Sherlock he'd pulled her by the hair when she turned to see how Emily was. She'd retaliated by kicking the landlord in the groin and pushing him backwards. He fell, hitting his head on the corner of the bed.

Violet just stood there, looking down at the immobile figure. The air in the bedroom became stilled. She could hear the sounds of the telly in the other room—rising and falling canned laughter. She didn't dare breathe. Thankfully, the man on the floor groaned and put a hand to the back of his head. When he pulled it back, his fingertips were covered in blood. Adrenaline was still coursing through Violet's veins and she reacted quickly. She grabbed an old pillow case that lay on the floor nearby and pressed it to the back of his head.

"Hold it there!" she ordered him. She tried to fight the panic rising inside her. Head injuries always seemed worse than they were, she told herself. No. Nick told her that as _he_ had once lain sprawled on the floor after hitting his head in a drunken stupor.

Violet straightened up and surveyed the room. Her heart beat furiously when she retrieved her phone from her jacket. Her hand hovered over Sherlock's number. He'd know how to sort it. He'd convince this fucking scum not to call the police on her. Would the man even contact the police, given he was a dealer? Sherlock would know. He'd take one look at the man and say a few words to convince the drug dealing landlord to do anything they'd say. Sherlock would sort this whole mess for her.

But she couldn't.

Emily still lay inelegantly sprawled on the bed. Violet quickly covered her up with a dirty quilt. The rest of the place was a pigsty. And she bet that Riley was still sat on the living room sofa, huddled up and shivering and staring blankly at the telly, discarded foil wrappers, dirty spoons and syringes and food litter scattered around him. Violet hadn't wanted to confirm her suspicion, but she thought she saw a used condom in one corner of Emily's room.

She couldn't bring Sherlock to this. To see how her friends lived. And so she had called Danny.

Violet shivered as she sat on the hotel room bed, combing her fingers through her hair and staring blankly at the muted television screen. She had decided against the wine. For now anyway. How long would Sherlock stay away? A couple of hours? Days? Forever?

A couple of texts from Mandi kept Violet occupied for a while. Mandi was asking why Violet and Sherlock were in Manchester. They had been spotted leaving the station. Violet rang Mandi, rather than text her back. Her friend was annoyed that she hadn't been privy to Violet's travel plans.

"How am I supposed to look after your Tumblr page if you tell me nowt?" came Mandi's Northern accent. Always thicker whenever Mandi was angry with Violet.

Violet sighed and apologised; it was a last minute trip for a case and therefore the details were confidential. The lies just tumbled out far too easily when it came to Mandi. Just what kind of friend was Violet if she never trusted her bessy mate with the minutiae of her life?

Violet spent another hour googling both herself and Sherlock. She found a photo posted to Twitter showing them waiting for a cab outside Manchester Piccadilly station. They were both gazing along the road away from whoever had taken the photo. Sherlock was frowning, but he was holding her hand. Feeling a twinge in her heart, Violet enlarged the photo and stared at the frowning man. How could he just leave her?

But… the hand holding. He had come so far in their relationship that he now automatically reached for her hand when they went out together. He still didn't like Violet showing too much affection for him when out in public, but he didn't mind taking her by the hand. They'd just had a difficult couple of days—they hardly spoke on the journey from London—but he had still held her hand.

After yawning multiple times, Violet decided she needed caffeine to stay awake until Danny came for her. She used the hotel room kettle and sachets of instant coffee. It tasted like mud. She could've called down for room service, but she didn't feel like interacting with any more hotel staff after her experience in the restaurant earlier in the evening.

Two cups of coffee and half a movie later, she received a text from Danny; he was on his way. She sent a message to Sherlock, telling him she was going to see Jake. She didn't want to keep that from him, but she wanted him to know she wasn't just sitting around waiting for him, even though that was exactly what she had been doing.

Danny said little during their journey to the hospital. Violet suspected he was still a bit pissed off with her for calling him around to the council estate in Ordsall.

"When am I going to stop having to clean up your shite?" he had said at the time, almost under his breath. For Danny, this meant he was positively fuming. He was usually so calm and accommodating.

They were able to navigate the hospital corridors unmolested. Curiously, Danny was in possession of a key card that gave him access to the ward, and he nodded a greeting to the police officer who stood guard outside Jake's room. There was another man sitting watch a little further along the corridor, who Violet recognised as Dexter, one of Jake's own thugs.

Danny opened the door and nodded to Violet, indicating that she go in alone.

"He looks worse than 'e his, our Jake, but don't worry about all that," Danny whispered.

The room was quiet and frigid. Violet automatically banded her arms around herself. Why were hospital rooms always so cold?

"All right, Vi? I'm awake. You don't have to tip-toe," came Jake's voice from the bed. "Fuck me, you're a sight," he added, as Violet approached him.

"You can hardly talk," she responded. Jake had a deep gash on his forehead and his jaw was swollen on one side. There were bandages around his midriff and one arm was in a sling. "Where didn't they get you?"

Jake huffed out a laugh, and then winced and hugged his ribs with his good arm.

"Were they Sebastian Moran's thugs?" Violet asked, pulling up beside the hospital bed.

"Yeah. Sort of. I knew each and every ugly mug. Remember Kenny, our Alison's lad?"

Violet silently nodded. A bartender at Kabuki's. Jake went on to name just about every thug who had pounced on him that night, in an alleyway a few hundred metres from his home, even though they had worn ski masks. It wasn't like Jake to conduct business in a location so close to the house he shared with his wife, and Violet had a hunch he may have been desperate for a hit and hadn't relied on his usual methods of supply at the time. Being a desperate junkie made him an easy target.

Violet pulled up a chair that was positioned beside the bed.

"So, what are you going to do about it?" she asked, when Jake had finished his recount.

"Don't you worry. This will all be sorted."

"I wasn't worried," she lied.

Jake threw her an uneasy glance. Clearly not a remark he was expecting.

"Why did you want to see me?" Violet asked.

"I'm getting a divorce."

A tiny laugh escaped her. This was getting ridiculous now. He was like a broken record.

"No, you're not," she said. "Saying you're getting a divorce is like a New Year's resolution for you. It's an annual promise. And it never fucking happens."

"I'm doing it right this time."

Jake reached for her hand, which Violet immediately pulled away. Her chest grew tighter and a light buzzing sounded in her head.

 _He can't want to propose to you again,_ came Sherlock's voice. _He's not that stupid is he?_

Violet quickly stood and took a step away from the bed. Her heart hammered in her chest.

"The hold she had over me," he began. "The money. Well, I've sold just about every business I had that used that fucking tart's money," Jake said. "I've built up everything I own meself. I'm just about free of her."

"Good," Violet responded. All the life had gone out of her voice and she turned away from Jake.

"And I know you're not happy."

Violet was glad Jake couldn't see her face at that moment. She held her breath. How could he be so perceptive?

"Vi."

She slowly shook her head but didn't turn around. He can't be proposing to her. Sherlock couldn't be right about that. Not again. She didn't want to have come all this way for this. It had cost her.

"That's why you called me to London, wasn't it?" Jake continued. "And why you wanted to speak to me after Simon's wedding. He's a bastard, yeah? Sherlock Holmes? As bad as Nick?"

Violet exhaled in relief. The idiot wasn't so intuitive after all. But God! Were they doing this again?

"Vi?"

She didn't turn around. She was losing far more than she was gaining here. What had she expected of Jake? Why had she come? She'd dragged Sherlock here and the tension between them had escalated thanks to her involvement with Manchester and the past life she wouldn't let go of. Had she lost Sherlock because of this?

"Do I have to produce a ring to show you how serious I am?" he went on. "Because I do have one. Well, not now, right, because—"

"No!" Violet spun around, her hands clenched by her sides. "Why do you have to be so stupid!"

"Hey… that's not—"

"I'm _not_ unhappy! I _didn't_ call you for support!" Violet approached the bed again, her entire body bristling with anger. "I _don't_ —"

She stopped abruptly and held herself back. Jake's eyes had grown wider in anticipation and the cockiness in his demeanour had disappeared. Suddenly he looked sick and injured and… vulnerable. Was she really going to be so brutal with the truth?

"I don't…" she began again, some of the tension leaving her body in a weary exhale. "I don't love you the way you want me to. That's… that's in the past." She suddenly felt tired with the burden of her confession. "Jake, I tricked you into going to London. And I didn't want to see you after the wedding. It was a lie. I made it all up. I love Sherlock." She paused before her emotions crippled her completely. Hearing the words said out loud produced a ripple of sorrow through her. She didn't know what was going on in Sherlock's mind, nor his heart. She may have lost everything.

But Jake was silent, probably turning her words over in his mind.

"We worked together, Sherlock and I," Violet went on, her voice struggling to remain even. "Why wouldn't he get me to help him on this case? I know you, and you're our connection to Moran. I had your number, and when Moran rang you after my visit, we had his." Violet shrugged, feeling emboldened by Jake's silence. "Perhaps he phoned Ronny Adair a couple of times. Arranged their hookups. Maybe he had saucy pictures of him on his phone. His secret phone that the authorities couldn't trace until we gave them his number."

Jake's eyes became hooded, an early warning sign Violet knew only too well.

"You're a fucking grass," he muttered.

"No. _You're_ the grass." She pointed toward the doorway and added, "That's what they think out there. That's why you were beaten within an inch of your life."

" _Get out!"_

Jake's whole body had tensed and Violet stepped back. It looked like he intended ripping the tubes from his arm to scramble out of bed after her.

" _Get the fuck out!_ _You fucking cunt!_ "

Jake strained to lean forward, a murderous look on his face. But somehow, with Violet thinking she had nothing left to lose, she stood her ground. The door flew open, and Jake's thug filled the doorway, the police officer hovering just behind.

"Get her out!" Jake ordered. "Permanently!"

Violet stepped back toward Jake's bed just as Dexter entered the room.

"Wait," Violet said, her mind quickly scrambling for a new lie. "There's a paparazzo outside," she said to Dexter, who looked uncertainly at Jake. "He already snapped me entering." Violet turned to address Jake. "I promised him a story if he waited before posting it, but there's already a photo on Twitter of Sherlock and I arriving in Manchester. What would Moran think if he saw a photo of me entering this hospital?" Violet once again turned to Dexter. "I haven't finished here yet."

Dexter looked uneasily at Jake, who gave an imperceptible nod. The cavalry left the room, closing the door behind them.

"You're lying," Jake said, almost wearily. The small amount of aggression he'd just shown must have taken a lot out of him.

Violet pulled out her phone and navigated to the photo on Twitter. She thrust it in Jake's face and said, "How about a selfie? Really show Moran how close you and I are again."

"Fuck off!" Jake said, snatching the phone from Violet and hurling it across the room where it collided with the window sill and dropped to the floor with a clatter. Before Violet could straighten up, he reached for her, pulling her down by the hair at her nape. Violet gasped at the sudden pain as Jake ground out, "You – betrayed – me, you – fucking – tart."

His eyes burned with hatred, only inches from hers. A warm familiarity surged through her, but she reached out a hand to steady herself and felt the bandage across Jake's chest. Then she pushed, hard.

Jake gasped and immediately released his hold on her hair. Violet straightened up and took a step back, putting herself just beyond Jake's reach. He was silent for a second or two, struggling to suck in necessary breath, before he moaned in pain, shutting his eyes as he did so.

"F-fucking... bitch..." he said, in between sucking in air.

Violet drew in a calming breath herself. She suddenly felt emboldened with the plan that had formed in her mind. A plan spawned from Sherlock's own words.

She still cared about Jake—a little too much—but she loved Sherlock. Her heart felt heavy with everything that had happened, and so she wanted to leave the hospital with a bit more than another marriage proposal.

"He's going to kill you," she said to Jake. "Moran. When he gets out. He'll finish the job."

"Please – fuck off," Jake said, grimacing through the pain.

"You know he'll get off, don't you? I don't know how he does it. Witness intimidation and jury tampering or something."

Jake remained silent. He closed his eyes and Violet assumed he was concentrating on breathing through the pain she had inflicted. Drawing on her reserves, Violet moved toward the bed again. This time she took a seat beside Jake instead of the chair. Jake's eyes snapped open when he felt her presence.

His eyes widened—out of fear?—as Violet loomed over him. But this time she took care to place her hand on the other side of him, instead of on his chest. She gazed deeply into his eyes. Bluer than Sherlock's, but they could be just as cruel. As Jake locked eyes on hers, she remembered the warmth they could hold, and the power they once held over her. Violet was transported back to the first time she realised she loved Jake. It had rippled through her, filling her chest and enveloping her heart. She hadn't known such a dizzying realisation before.

"I loved you," she all but whispered to him. "I really loved you." Jake's features softened a little prompting Violet's eyes to sting and her chest to tighten. "But you hurt me. Over and over." She could feel her eyes moistening, but she had to soldier on. "Every time you went home to her, and fucked her for her money a part of my love for you died."

She dropped her gaze momentarily.

"Until I hated you."

"I know."

His voice was hoarse and heavy with sorrow. She'd heard that before, too. She met his gaze again.

"I really despised you," she added. There was more to this, but she didn't want to confess everything. She had hated him. Somewhere along the line, the disappointment over his birthday party organised by the wife he apparently loathed and the ever-presence of Danny had brought the two together. But this was not the time for _that_ confession. "I don't hate you now, Jake, but I don't love you any more either. I care…"

Her next line had been well-rehearsed and the emotions that accompanied it were drawn from a well deep within and executed as if they came from a moment of spontaneity. They were uttered to a young man, in uniform, on a darkened stage illuminated by a single spotlight, several nights a week over the course of a few weeks. Her direction? _Reach for his lapels, darling, to anchor yourself, as you gaze fixedly into his eyes. If you could conjure a few tears, that would be lovely. He isn't going to return home from the war the same person that you once knew and loved. The audience up in the cheap seats won't see your tears, but…_

Jake didn't have lapels, but she gently slid a hand to his neck and ran a thumb along his jawline.

"But I…" Her eyes began to water so stammering her lines only added to the effect. "I don't want you… to die." She bowed her head, and when she blinked, the first of her tears fell freely. Violet choked out a sob and felt Jake's hand cup her cheek.

Violet lifted her lids and stared at Jake through tear-stained eyes. His expression was sorrowful, contrite, like the morning after an argument with her. She placed her hand over his, and gently removed it from her cheek.

"He won't—" Jake began.

"He's a psychopath," Violet said, before sniffing back further tears. "I saw it in his eyes when he was choking me." Jake's eyes dropped to her neck. There, she knew, he'd see the faded yellow bruises on either side of her throat. His eyes narrowed just a little. A small victory. But she felt her insides churning again.

Sherlock.

He'd sought revenge on Moran; he visited him in prison, hadn't he? Did he really? On her behalf? Violet still wasn't sure if Sherlock had been joking or not. He had mentioned it so casually.

Violet shook those thoughts loose. She had to continue with her performance.

"If you could…" she stammered, "you must have…" She drew in a steadying breath before she made her final plea. "You must have something on him… to keep him inside. I'm sure you would. You always make it your business to know these things. That's why you're so successful."

She held onto his hand as she brought it back down to his chest. She lowered her gaze once more and gently stroked the back of it with her thumb.

"To make sure he gets convicted," she murmured, as if distracted. "I… I thought I was going to die."

She didn't think she was going to die. A violent response had raged inside her at the time Moran had his hand around her throat.

Violet dragged her gaze back to Jake. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he was deciding something. She had to shut up now. Only his own conscience could help him reach a decision. There would be no further prompting from her.

Violet suddenly leant forward and planted a kiss on Jake's cheek that lingered for a couple of seconds. She drew back a little and whispered, "Goodbye, Jake."

She left the bed without a backwards glance, before stooping to pick up her phone. A quick press on the home button drew no response from it. The screen bore a crack that ran diagonally from one corner across the entire screen.

Pocketing her phone inside her jacket, Violet crossed the room. As her fingers encircled the door handle, Jake called out to her. Violet froze, a tad disappointed in his gullibility. She had just confessed to lying to him, to playing on his emotions, and then she'd hit him with some hard truths before making her feeble pleas to him, thus toying with his feelings for her again. And he'd fallen for it. Again.

Violet turned to him, the lamp from the bedside table giving him his own weak spotlight.

"I do have something on him," he said.

Violet breathed in deeply and let go of the door handle.

-oOo-

 **Author's Note:**

I'm sorry there was no Sherlock in this chapter, but there's only one chapter to go!

I'm hoping the next episode of Sherlock S4 doesn't have me curling up into a tight ball and vowing never to write Sherlock fanfic again.

Thanks for reading! Please show your support for my story by commenting in the review box!

Cheers, elbafo x


	48. He's a Romantic

**A/N:** The last chapter!

* * *

 **C** **hapter** **47 – He's a Romantic**

Sherlock returned the clothes hanger, now holding his jacket, to the hotel room closet. He paused, straining to hear sounds emanating through the suite from the corridor beyond. Was their room too far away to hear the ding of the lift? Perhaps he was hearing things.

Sherlock emitted a deep sigh. He lifted his arm to unbutton a shirt cuff, then checked his watch. It was twenty past twelve. He knew where Violet was, and that uncomfortable churning in his gut returned once more.

He was just about to pull his shirt out of his trousers when he heard the hotel room door open. His pulse began to accelerate. The time was now. He would finally have to face Violet and have a conversation with her.

Her footsteps stopped as if she was assessing the empty room. Sherlock decided to put her out of her misery, and he left the bedroom for the living area.

Violet was just removing her jacket, and she froze, her eyes widening when she saw Sherlock. He could see from this distance she'd been crying. His heart gave a twinge, reminding him to feel guilty about upsetting her.

"I just turned my phone on a minute ago," he said. "Sorry. Just got your message. I tried to ring you…"

"My phone's dead."

She held it up and waved it half-heartedly at Sherlock. It was then that Sherlock saw the cracked screen.

"What happened?" he asked, crossing the room towards her.

"Jake threw it at the wall," she replied. Her voice was flat, and her expression, in that moment, unreadable.

 _Not this again,_ Sherlock thought. His body tensed in response but he moved closer. He was just outstretching his arm to bring her into his embrace when she handed him the phone.

"Is it broken?" she asked.

It took Sherlock only a split second to recover. He pressed the Home and Power buttons in quick succession.

"Quite."

Violet turned her back on him and finished pulling off her jacket.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. He was dreading the answer, but he hadn't detected any fresh bruises on her person. He hated that this was now a sign he needed to check for.

"Yes," she said, still facing away from him. She threw the jacket over the back of the sofa. "Actually, no. I'm not," she said, as she turned to him. Sherlock noted a tiny tremble in her voice. "You left me, Sherlock! You walked out on me!"

Sherlock gulped.

"To be fair," he replied, "you walked out on me first."

"To go to the bathroom! Where did you go?"

"I needed air."

"For five hours!"

"And I needed to think."

Violet's eyes were glistening. She must've been in a state. Five hours was it? Sherlock didn't really notice the passage of time. And poor Violet. She would've lived every moment of it. From the state of the bedcovers, the empty coffee mugs and hotel room literature scattered about, she must've been going out of her mind with worry.

Sherlock had been riddled with an unfamiliar emotion and he knew it was borne out of his love for Violet. But it was a negative emotion. Once he'd assessed it, and identified it for what it was—jealousy—he was able to overcome it. But, yes. It had taken him nearly five hours.

"I'm sorry," he quickly added.

"And your phone was switched off."

Sherlock looked down at the phone in his hand and was momentarily surprised to see that it was Violet's, not his. He moved toward the sofa and placed the handset on the coffee table.

"I didn't want to talk to anybody, not just you."

Violet silently watched him. She remained standing and had folded her arms in front of her. Sherlock gestured toward the sofa and said, "Perhaps we should talk now."

Her eyes appeared to flood with tears, which alarmed Sherlock. Did she think the worst was about to happen? He quickly moved in front of her and gathered her up in his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He felt her shudder against him and a tiny sob escaped her. "I love you," he said. "And I'm sorry I upset you." This only seemed to upset her more, Sherlock realised. A curious response.

He held her in silence for a moment, all the while thinking if he could just get the words out, she would stop being so upset. In the back of his mind, he had some vague recollection of it being a good thing to hold somebody when they needed you to, but on the other hand, wouldn't it be better to cheer them up as soon as possible?

"Violet," he said, pulling back a little.

"Just hold me," she said, sniffing.

Well, that confirmed it.

Sherlock rubbed Violet's back, then placed a small kiss on her temple when she repositioned her head. Eventually he was able to direct her to the sofa. They sat, Sherlock with one arm around Violet, while they held hands, fingers entwined. Violet had wiped away her tears and had finally composed herself.

"I'm sorry, too," she said. "I don't quite know where to start." She sniffed again and gave Sherlock a weak smile. "I'm sorry for demanding you celebrate with my friends, and for saying horrible things when I was drunk and making you come out to dinner… and…sit and wait while the waitress and I…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a little as her words came tumbling out. It seemed she had a list.

"…and not including you when I punched Em's landlord and comparing you to Danny…"

"Okay, I get the picture." He gave her a reassuring lopsided smile and was relieved when her expression softened. Sherlock drew in a calming breath. "Violet, I…" He gave her hand a brief squeeze and dropped his gaze for a moment while he tried to compose the words that would sound the least offensive. "I don't know if I'll ever appreciate the entertainment industry, and all that comes with it, especially the concept of _fans_ and your tolerance of them. I do know you work hard and are very talented, and your achievements are something to be acknowledged. I won't pretend I'm going to be comfortable celebrating your wins in the manner in which you desire. I will, however, offer my congratulations in a way that reflects our relationship status, using preferences akin—"

"Sherlock," Violet said. She pressed a finger to his lips. "It's okay." She laughed, removing her hand and Sherlock was relieved to see the familiar sparkle returning to her eyes. "You know, when you get uncomfortable with the subject matter, your vocabulary increases phenomenally."

She continued to laugh at him, causing Sherlock to scowl in response.

"But I won't ask you to come out drinking with me and my friends again," she said. Violet reached up and cupped Sherlock's cheek. "I love you." Then her eyes started to moisten again. Uh oh. "I was scared you were going to break up with me, because I'm such a horrible girlfriend. And it wouldn't be Mycroft making something up this time. It would be all my fault."

Sherlock reached for her hand and held it in his.

"You're wrong there," he said succinctly. "I would never break up with you. Of course you're not a horrible girlfriend. Sometimes I think you're a psychopath, but I wouldn't have you any other way. We're perfectly matched in that respect."

Sherlock waited while Violet searched his eyes, before her mouth quirked into a smile.

"Did you really visit Sebastian Moran in prison?"

"Yes, I did."

Violet chuckled lightly. Narrowing the gap between them, she said, "You're so romantic."

"I'm really not."

Violet captured Sherlock's lips in hers. He closed his eyes and responded in kind, banding his arms tightly around her. Suddenly, Violet pulled back.

"You taste like a tobacco factory."

"Tobacco factories don't actually—"

Violet silenced him once more by pressing her lips to his. Her fingers found their way into his curls. Sherlock slowly and tenderly deepened their kiss, until Violet's soft hums of pleasure brought a sharp reaction of arousal to his core.

He eased back and whispered, "We'd better take this to the bedroom."

He led Violet by the hand to the bedroom, where she then made excuses that she had to use the bathroom first. Sherlock finished undressing without her. He had to hang up his clothing anyway, and didn't want to risk Violet ruining something with her enthusiasm.

Clad only in his boxer trunks, he slid beneath the covers just as Violet emerged from the bathroom wearing her underwear.

She patted her stomach and said, "I'm starving. Aren't you?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. _Oh,_ he thought. They hadn't actually eaten anything, despite sitting in a restaurant together earlier.

"Should I call room service?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

Sherlock reached over for the receiver of the hotel phone.

"I guess I could've got something from a hospital vending machine," Violet said, as she joined Sherlock beneath the covers, "but I didn't fancy a packet of crisps."

Sherlock dialled 'One' for room service and held the receiver to his ear. He said to Violet, "So, I guess you didn't get anything from Jake other than a broken phone."

"No," Violet said. "You're wrong. And I thought you never guessed." A sly smile grew across her face and the twinkle in her eyes reminded Sherlock of one of his own expressions. The one he wore when he knew something others didn't. "I did get something."

" _Room service, good morning. This is Bryan._ "

Sherlock immediately hung up on Bryan.

"Tell me everything all at once. Don't miss anything out."

-o-

"Before you take your nap," Sherlock said, as they were halfway up the stairs to 221B, "I have to get an item from the bedroom. I've got something to give you."

Violet turned around on the step above Sherlock.

"You have?"

A grin grew out of one corner of Sherlock's mouth and he patted his breast pocket.

"I've been shopping."

"You?" Violet said with a note of derision. "Shopping?"

"Yes. While you were having your clandestine meeting with Dan in the Lost Luggage office, I made a swift but secretive purchase."

"What's the bedroom got to do with it?"

"I have to retrieve another related item from there. You'll see."

While Violet stood slightly stunned on the stairs, Sherlock brushed past her. He was feeling on top of the world at the moment and about to cement his status as the best boyfriend Violet Hunter had ever had.

He strode confidently across the threshold into his living room, then pulled up short, doing a double-take at the figure sitting regally in Violet's armchair.

Mycroft Holmes's lips were the thinnest Sherlock had ever seen on the man. Planting the tip of his umbrella on the carpet, Mycroft rose from his seat.

"What on earth were you doing visiting Jacob Venucci in hospital?" he asked. Mycroft redirected his gaze to Violet when she entered the living room. "Ms Hunter."

"Interrogating him," Sherlock replied. He reached into his pocket, drew out a memory stick and lightly tossed it to his brother. It hit Mycroft in the chest and, to Sherlock's amazement, Mycroft quickly clamped a hand over it, preventing it from falling. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, impressed with the British Government's uncharacteristically quick reflexes.

"What's this?" Mycroft asked.

Violet had dropped her jacket to the coffee table, and she circumnavigated the men and headed toward the kitchen with an offer of tea.

"Thank you, no," Mycroft said, briefly turning toward Violet. "I won't be staying."

"No," said Sherlock. "You won't." He shrugged out of his coat and said to Mycroft, "That's video footage of Sebastian Moran shooting John Douglas in the back of the head, five years ago in Manchester." Giving his brother a few seconds to open and shut his mouth like a goldfish, Sherlock busied himself hanging his and Violet's coats on the back of the door.

Violet had switched on the kettle and came up behind Mycroft.

"It was the renovations," she said, causing Mycroft to spin around. "Kabuki's. Jake owns it."

"I'm aware of that," Mycroft replied.

"It used to be Row 17," she continued, "where Moran worked as Head of Security."

"Not very effectively," Sherlock added. "A video camera was found concealed in a wall that was knocked down during the renovations. The camera contained a hard drive with all its surveillance files intact. Venucci examined the files and decided to keep the footage as insurance, should he ever need something on Sebastian Moran."

"So why is he giving it up now?"

"To ensure Moran stays behind bars," Sherlock replied. "Leaving Venucci in the number one spot as kingpin of Manchester's underworld."

Sherlock didn't fail to notice Violet shuffle uneasily. She turned and went back to the kitchen. When she told him last night that Jake would give up the video footage if Violet could give her assurances that she would do her best to keep Sherlock Holmes out of Manchester in the future, Sherlock had an inkling, one that he'd had for some time, that there was another figure in charge—a criminal mastermind. It was never Moran at the top, and likewise, it wouldn't be Jake Venucci. Sherlock loved a challenge. But he would keep these thoughts to himself. Best not upset Violet for the time being.

"Why are you giving this to me?" Mycroft asked, turning the memory stick over in his hand. "Why didn't you take this to the Greater Manchester Police? It was their case originally."

"Part of our deal with Venucci was that we'd distance him from the evidence. Perhaps it was found by a subcontractor who gave the camera to a nephew. Or it ended up at the tip… Whatever story your people spin, it can't lead back to Venucci."

Mycroft's face broadened into his characteristic lizard's grin.

"I don't negotiate with criminals."

Sherlock held out his hand.

"Then give it back."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in response to Sherlock, then hid the stick behind his back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Seriously?" he said. " _That's_ your preventative measure?" He took a step toward his brother and said, "You do recall the time you tried to keep a cigarette lighter from me to prevent me lighting up in the parlour. Remember how that turned out? It took them weeks to get the stains out of the carpet."

Mycroft's face twitched a little and he took a step backwards. Sherlock didn't make another move towards him. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on his brother's because Sherlock could see something Mycroft couldn't.

Violet came up behind Mycroft and snatched the memory stick from his hand.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Mycroft said, spinning around. Sherlock huffed a laugh.

Violet held up the stick and said, "You can have it back if you give me your word you'll distance Jake from it."

Mycroft sighed deeply. Sherlock was enjoying the stand-off between his brother and his girlfriend. He could feel the urge to pull up a chair and sit back and enjoy the show. Now this was something the entertainment industry should get a hold of. He really hoped Mycroft would say something scathing about Violet so she would get that look in her eye. Perhaps she'd get physical? His older brother was a complete ponce when it came to wrestling. Mycroft was almost an inch taller than Sherlock, and Violet was.. well.. Violet. This would be hilarious.

"All right, fine," Mycroft said. "I give you my word."

Sherlock tutted at the lost opportunity for entertainment.

Mycroft held out his hand, but Violet didn't move.

"Promise me," she said.

It was Mycroft's turn to tut and roll his eyes.

"I promise."

Violet handed over the memory stick and Mycroft adjusted himself to his full height.

"Well, that was disappointing," Sherlock said. He held the door open and gave Mycroft an expectant look. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in response and then made for the exit.

As he crossed the threshold, he turned to his little brother and said, "I have a case for you, Brother Mine. You do owe me."

"Not right now," Sherlock said, closing the door in Mycroft's face. He waited until he could hear footsteps descending, then he turned back to the living area. "And now," he said, clamping his hands together as he strode toward the kitchen, "something delightful. Stay where you are. Don't follow me."

Sherlock strode through the kitchen and into the bedroom. He pulled open his sock drawer and began rifling through it.

"Where is it?" he muttered to himself. "Where did I put it... ah!"

He pulled out a tiny object wrapped in tissue paper. He had discarded the velvet box it came in when he had purchased it. He quickly unwrapped it and lay it on the top of his bureau, where it sparkled and winked at him. Reaching into his breast pocket, Sherlock retrieved his more recent purchase.

"Are you going to be long?" Violet called from the kitchen.

"No," Sherlock said, as he swiftly and dextrously connected the two together. "Stay where you are."

Clutching the delicate jewellery in his hand, Sherlock left the bedroom.

"Close your eyes," he said to Violet, who was still standing by the kettle.

Violet clapped a hand over her eyes. Sherlock chuckled.

"Are your own eyelids really so untrustworthy that you have to hold them shut?"

"Just hurry up."

"You'll actually have to lower your arm," Sherlock said as he came up beside her. "It's in the way."

After Violet dropped her arm, Sherlock reached out and gently turned her so she faced away from him.

"We're not playing the _What's the difference between a liver and a kidney by smell alone_ game are we?"

"No," Sherlock said with a laugh. "And it was a liver and a spleen that time."

He held the necklace in front of Violet, where the pendant swung and caught the light, then he drew the clasp around her neck. She gasped when the cool metal touched her chest and the pendant nestled into her cleavage.

Sherlock could tell Violet was holding her breath and doing her best not to cry. Her silence alone told him that.

"You can open your eyes now."

"No." She sniffed and remained still.

Sherlock enveloped her in his embrace and chuckled in her ear from behind.

"No, really. Open your eyes."

Violet gave a tiny exhale and looked down at her chest. She still said nothing as she lifted the pendant up.

"Mickey Mouse," Sherlock said.

"I know."

"I bought it in L.A. Well, at the airport, when you were shopping for Mrs Hudson and Mandi. Since you didn't get to go to Ditzy Land…"

Violet emitted a half-laugh, half-sob, then sniffed again.

"It's so beautiful," she said, her voice tight and strained, as she held the diamond and white gold pendant up against the light. "Thank you."

"And I had to wait until we returned so I could buy the chain," Sherlock added, "which I did earlier today."

Sherlock straightened up and gently rubbed Violet's shoulder with his thumb.

"It's one of those tokenistic things that's supposed to demonstrate my commitment to you, should my words fall short."

"Oh, stop it."

"We're going to have many arguments," Sherlock said, as he prompted Violet to turn around and face him. "I know it. And I think you know that, too. It's how we are. I'm sure it's our version of flirting. And we're going to walk out on each other, too. I'll be lost in my Mind Palace, sorting things out. I'll end up in a bolt hole. I might sulk for days on end. But this..." He reached out and cupped the pendant in his hand. "This is my promise to come back. I'll always come back to you."

Violet's bottom lip trembled and she threw her arms around Sherlock, hugging him tight. This was one of those moments, Sherlock knew, when he should just shut up and hold her.

He could feel a wetness against his neck and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. Violet was still trembling against him. Eventually she drew back and looked up at him with moist eyes.

"You're so wonderful," she said.

"I know."

"And there's something I've always said I want to do for you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Cook dinner for you."

A knot quickly formed in Sherlock's stomach.

"Ah… let's not get ahead of ourselves. One promise at a time, hey?"

Violet laughed lightly, then narrowed the gap between them. Her body pressed against his, with the pendant nestled between them, held all kinds of other promises.

"The case is well and truly closed," she whispered.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied. "And I believe we have another achievement in your acting repertoire that should be celebrated." Sherlock paused to clear his throat. "In a manner conducive to our relationship status."

Violet chuckled lightly then withdrew from his embrace and languidly turned from him before disappearing from the kitchen.

"Leave the pendant on!" Sherlock called. He adjusted his trousers as he left the kitchen. They were becoming quite tight and uncomfortable. "And only the pendant," he added as he entered the bedroom.

-o-

"Okay, us girls are staying in and having cocktails," Violet said upon ending the call on her phone. "Mary's feeling poorly. We'll be at her maid-of-honour's flat in Chelsea. Do you know what you're going to do?"

Sherlock scowled as he buttoned up his jacket. "Well since John shut me down on every idea I had, we're just going to have a few quiet pints at the Oldham."

"What ideas?"

"I told him I'd done my research."

"You researched stag nights?"

"Yes. I said we had to get him completely inebriated, humiliate him in a manner that suits his profession—Stamford suggested dolling him up in a nurse's uniform—and leaving him in a public place until morning. Pretty straightforward really."

Violet laughed and she moved forward and brushed fluff from Sherlock's lapel. "And he shut you down?"

"Completely."

"I think in the true spirit of stag nights," Violet said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "you're not really supposed to seek the groom's permission."

Sherlock paused for a minute. His eyes took on a dream-like quality.

"Is that so?"

-o-

"John's getting married," Sherlock slurred as Violet helped him remove his jacket.

"Yes, I know. That's lovely isn't it?" she replied softly, before assisting him to sit down on the bed. Violet knelt on the floor in front of Sherlock and grasped the back of his shoe. "Tilt your foot… there we go..."

"He's...he's going to be married."

"Mmm. Yes. Other foot now."

Violet removed Sherlock's socks as he flopped down onto his back. She stood up and he limply held out a hand to her.

"He lives with her."

"Yes, Sherlock. For over a year now." Violet bent over her boyfriend and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherlock struggled to prop himself up onto his elbows.

"Why's he getting married then?"

He frowned at Violet, his eyes glassy and unfocussed. She finished unfastening the last of his buttons and met his gaze. Sherlock's mouth was turned down at the edges.

"You'll have to sit up again... come on...up!" she said, puffing lightly. He really was a dead weight. "There. I don't know. Some people like to show their commitment to one another."

"I'm committed." Sherlock drunkenly put his arm around Violet's shoulders and leant in toward her. Whiskey and beer fumes emanated from his breath. He reached out and swiped at Violet's pendant as she tried to unbutton his shirt cuffs. "I'm committed," he repeated, trying to grasp Mickey Mouse between his fingers.

"I know. Other arm now..."

"Why's he marrying her?"

"Because he loves her," Violet said. She stood, making Sherlock's arm flop from around her shoulders. He bowed his head in silence as she struggled to remove his shirt. "Lie down again. We'll take your trousers off."

"But..." Sherlock said, inelegantly lowering himself to the bed again. "I love you."

"I know you do, Sherlock. Come on, shuffle back a bit."

Sherlock turned and crawled to the top of the bed then flopped down onto his back. He lifted his hips when Violet prompted him so she could pull down his trousers.

"I love you," he murmured, his eyelids fluttering closed.

"I know. I love you, too," Violet whispered as she yanked the trousers from around his ankles.

Sherlock muttered something while rolling to his side. Violet leant over him.

"What?" she asked.

Sherlock muttered again, but she only caught the words "...marry me..."

"What did you say? Sherlock?"

A loud snore was her only reply.

"Sherlock!"

-oOo-

\- END OF PART 2 -

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks for reading! x


	49. Part 3 Preview

**Author's Note:**

The Prologue is up for Part 3!

It begins:

 ** _VIOLET HUNTER SPLITS_**

 _ **WITH BOYFRIEND**_

Violet Hunter is back on the market after splitting with her live-in boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes...


End file.
